Per Ardua Ad Astra
by GhostForce1911
Summary: AU Harry pays a high price for booting Voldemort out of his mind at the end of OotP - he is stripped of his magic, but gains something ... other. He starts a new life in the non-magical world, and adapts his skills to join the RAF, and later 'the Regiment'. He is assigned to the Atlantis Expedition and, through overcoming adversity will find a new home and family amongst the stars.
1. Prologue - The Price that is Paid

**Prologue – The Price that is Paid**

"_But who can remember pain, once it's over? All that remains of it is a shadow, not in the mind even, in the flesh. Pain marks you, but too deep to see. Out of sight, out of mind."_

_Margaret Atwood_

* * *

Pain. Endless, boundless, pain.

Harry felt as if he was falling through darkness, screaming. Winds buffeted him, and thunder crashed with lightning illuminating ... nothing. Nothing at all. Just the darkness.

Above the ancient castle of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, dark stormclouds swirled. In the Hospital Wing, Harry's body lay on a bed mid-way down the ward. If not for a steady, if weak pulse, one might have thought him dead. It was six hours or so since the conclusion of the battle in the Ministry, and Harry had collapsed insensate after apparently expelling Voldemort from his mind through sheer force of will.

_Might have been easier for me if he was,_ thought Albus Dumbledore, as he stood looking out at the unseasonal weather. He had just finished a long series of diagnostic spells and scans. The school medic, Madame Pomfrey, had been supervising him at first, but after he started in on some truly esoteric spells, she had given up and returned to her office. _Then, I could have set young Harry up as a martyr, a heroic teenage wizard who braved all the odds to rescue family. The kind of hero who might inspire some resistance from the sheep I have to herd. Instead..._

Some of those specialised spells had been aimed at the Horcrux on Harry's forehead. The detection charm had found no trace of a foreign soul fragment in Harry, although the scar remained. It seemed that in driving out Voldemort's possession, Harry had also forced out the dark magic that enabled Voldemort to survive beyond the destruction of his physical body in 1981. However, this had been at a cost. Although he didn't know it, Harry had expended more than just his entire magical strength in evicting Voldemort's mind and soul-part. He had used up the magic inherent in his body, pouring it into the struggle for his sanity. This phenomenon was known as a 'burn out' to magical medical parlance. It left the subject unable to do or even sense magic, and was totally incurable. Normal magical exhaustion could be corrected with rest and a few potions. Burn-outs were often fatal, but when they weren't, they were permanent Madame Pomfrey had spent the last few hours bouncing between Harry's bedside, pouring restorative potions down his throat in an attempt to recover something, and her office fireplace, floo-calling the specialists at St Mungo's for any ideas, advice or potions they could possibly find. However, it had all been in vain.

_On the one hand, Harry won't have to die in order that someone else, probably me can kill Tom_. Dumbledore thought. _On the other, he's now less than a squib. It's a shame, he was shaping up to be quite powerful, a worthy successor. However, now he's useless, unable to defend himself against even the simplest attack. Better to get rid of him - out of sight, out of mind. Then people will forget about this, like they always do._

The old manipulator sank deeper into his thoughts, seeking ways to appropriate the Potter vaults to help fund the Order. _After all, it's for the greater good...I am Harry's magical guardian, or at least everyone thinks that. Maybe there is some family rule that prevents a non-wizard from inheriting ..._

He missed the slight static charge build up in the air in the room behind him, a hint of power in the very air itself. Behind his closed lids, Harry's eyes darkened, becoming an inky, infinite black.

Above, the stormclouds circled.


	2. 1 - The End of the Beginning

Since I forgot it in the Prologue – I don't own Harry Potter, Stargate or any other franchise which may enter into this fanfiction story. I don't profit from them, and they belong to JKR and MGM respectively.

A/N: A belated apology to 'phoenix catcher,' who gave me permission to borrow elements from his exceptional story 'Cast Between Worlds.' I really should have dropped that in the prologue, but I forgot. Anyways, to anyone to has read Cast Between Worlds, this will be similar – but different – story, which I'm sure fills you all with something akin to confidence that I can actually write, and that I am not having you on. This is my first real attempt at writing, and Cast Between Worlds will probably become something of a template to fall back on if my imagination fails me and writer's block persists.

* * *

**Chapter 1 – The End of the Beginning**

"_When you come out of the storm, you won't be the same person who walked in. That's what the storm's all about."_

_Haruki Murakami_

* * *

Slowly, Harry gained control as he fell. He didn't reach the ground, didn't suddenly float. Instead, a gradual wind blew up, straight up underneath him, supporting him. He soared, as a bird of prey soars, through the endless black, borne aloft as if to reach the stars. The frequency of the thunder and lightning slowed, and then stopped entirely. And with that, the pain was gone.

* * *

"Mr Potter?"

Harry awoke slowly; exquisitely aware of the pounding headache that felt as if the troll from first year was rampaging around inside his skull. Cracking open one eye, he spotted Madam Pomfrey, who was watching him anxiously. Opening both eyes he looked at her.

"What happened?" His voice was dry, hoarse.

Madame Pomfrey tried to give him a stern look, but couldn't keep it up, and instead settled for a reproachful one. Despite his penchant for getting hurt, Mr Potter was a considerably better patient than most students, always polite and respectful, even if he did seem to have a habit of nearly getting killed.

"You pulled one of your escapades again, Mr Potter. You've been unconscious for three days. I thought we had words about these antics last time you ended up in my care."

"Yes ma'am, we did. I don't recall making any promises though."

Pomfrey snorted. "As if! Anyway, here, have some water while I run some spells." She helped him sit up before handing him a glass, then taking out her wand and casting diagnostic spells, before feeding him some anti-migraine potions. Even if she'd given up on fixing the burn out, she could alleviate the symptoms. Harry drifted in and out, dozing fitfully from the side effect of the potions.

* * *

An hour later, Madam Pomfrey was wondering what was wrong. She had already sent a message to the Headmaster concerning Harry's condition, and that he had woken up. He should have been down by now to check on his student.

The door to her office swung open, and Professor Snape strode in, robes billowing predictably. Pomfrey rolled her eyes – despite their close cooperation over the years, as most of her potions were produced by the Slytherin head, she still despaired of his amateur dramatics.

"Yes, Severus, what can I do for you?"

"The Headmaster has ordered me to escort Mr Potter out of the Castle, Poppy." Snape's arrogant, oily voice clearly conveyed both his disdain for Harry and his satisfaction that his target of many years was apparently being...

"What! Why? Why is Mr Potter leaving the castle, Professor Snape?"

"Because he is essentially a Muggle, Poppy." Snape's tone was intensely smug. "That is what your report said, is it not? And is this not a school for _magic_, Poppy? _Muggles_," he pronounced the word with a sneer, "do not belong here."

"What? Regardless, he's a student, a patient; you can't just throw him out!" Pomfrey's tone was indignant, in all her years here...

"Oh, but the Governors have spoken, Poppy." Snape produced a roll of parchment, flashing the seal of Hogwarts on the wax. "Mr Potter has been expelled for being unable to perform magic. No one, least of all those on the board, want a _Muggle_," again with a sneer, "around here. The Headmaster concurs, but for different reasons. He believes that without magic, Mr Potter will be unable to defend himself properly, and thus his safety would be better served by leaving the magic world as soon as possible."

The school Healer had no argument to that. The Governor's seal, combined with the Headmaster's approval, however phrased, prevented her from doing a damn thing about it. "Wait, I'm calling Minerva."

Snape maintained his sneer, but it did lessen somewhat. "Why bother?"

"Because if Mr Potter is to be escorted off the grounds as if he has done something wrong, I'm going to make sure it's with someone who won't taunt him about it. I know your habits, Severus. I know you antagonise him in lessons. It's come up in staff meetings more than a few times, after all."

"Fine. I don't care." The Potions professor's slightly petulant tone said it all. He'd been looking forward to a final gloat before Harry left. "Just make sure he leaves today." He whirled and left in a flourish of black.

Madame Pomfrey used her fireplace to contact Professor McGonagall, and explained the situation. Judging by the veritable screams of outrage that preceded the previously ever-unflappable Minerva's exit from her office even before Poppy could end the call, the Headmaster was about to be treated to an exceptionally impressive outburst of Scottish fury. _Hmmm, I wonder if she'd give me a pensieve memory_.

Shaking off that thought, the medi-witch bustled out of her office to give Harry the next round of potions, only to find him standing at the now-open window, staring out at the fine, cloudless day that had followed the dark clouds of the first two days after the battle, and Voldemort's public reappearance. More than a few members of the staff had commented on the ominous nature of the weather these past few days.

"Mr Potter! _What_ are you doing out of bed?"

Harry turned, curiously without glasses, she noticed, with a very slight smile. "Well, Madame Pomfrey, you didn't say I could leave it."

"Hmph. I see. Well, if you're feeling up to it, I have...some bad news to relay." She faltered, and Harry watched her with growing trepidation.

"Is what Snape said true? That I lost my magic?"

"How did you...?"

"Your office door was open," Harry pointed out. "I don't have my wand, so I can't tell." He sounded anxious. As well he might be, Poppy thought.

Poppy sighed, having hoped to do this more gently. "I'm sorry, Mr Potter, but the Professor was correct. You suffered a burn-out when you expelled You-know-who's possession from yourself. A burn out is a truly extreme case of magical exhaustion, which I know you've suffered in the past." Harry nodded. "However, a burn-out is, unfortunately, permanent. I've spent the last three days pleading with St Mungo's and every other healer I know to give me anything, any experimental potions or treatments at all. They had some good suggestions, but none of them appear to have worked, and they're all out of options. There's nothing I can do about it."

Harry's world was crumbling, falling in around him with every word. _Without magic – how – what ... what am I going to do. Voldemort's out there, he's not going to give a shit about my lack of magic, he'll just laugh at it. Sirius – Sirius is gone. He's gone. He's ... _Harry's memories came crashing back, like a tidal wave of fear, anger and anguish that he'd allowed himself to forget. He fell back against the wall, and slid down to sit on the floor, head in his hands. He couldn't hold back the tears. He hadn't wept, the Dursley's had threatened him whenever he kept them up with his sobbing as a child. He'd bottle it all in, all the fear, the pain, the misery and the anger, so much anger; at the Dursleys, at the Ministry, at Dumbledore for leaving when they needed him the most, at every life threatening event that seemed to find him every single god-damned year. And now, he had no magic. The one thing that kept him going; the beautiful, powerful, ever-changing force that had so revolutionized his life that July 31st five years ago. It had been _his,_ unquestionably something that _he _had, that couldn't be taken away_; _something that gave him answers, perspective, a new world in which he wasn't the 'freak' or the 'unwanted brat,' but someone special, someone _worth _something, someone who could, and had made a difference in any way he was able. And now, he didn't have that either. Without magic, he had nothing.

Poppy watched, distraught as Harry seemed to shut down in front of her. She tried to comfort him, reached out to him. It might have helped, but she couldn't tell. She was still there half an hour later when Minerva McGonagall came steaming into the ward in high dudgeon with Professor Dumbledore in tow.

"What's wrong?" McGonagall's Scottish brogue was stronger than usual, indicative of her high temper. That the answer was blindingly, moronically obvious occurred to her a moment later, when her old friend Poppy glared at her.

"What do you think, Minerva?"

The Head of Gryffindor crouched down beside her. "Harry? Can you try something for me?"

Harry barely even registered the question, but he nodded and looked up at her. McGonagall handed him his wand, _eleven inches, holly and Phoenix feather_. He took it and tried to say 'Lumos,' but his voice failed him. He cleared his throat, still hoping, still believing this was not happening. _'Lumos.' _ But there was nothing, not even a spark. He stared at his wand, dejected. _What now? _He thought, _What now?_

The Headmaster cleared his throat. "Harry, you have to leave."

"Why?" Harry's tone was distraught, choking on tears he was still trying to fight back.

"My boy, you're not safe here. The noble families are already up in arms about a muggle being in Hogwarts, its all I can do to keep them from arresting you." _Hardly, but he doesn't need to know that. Best he just disappears. Out of sight, out of mind. Then the sheep will forget this tragedy and move on._ "Sirius would hardly want you to throw your life away – "

Harry didn't hear the rest of it. That last sentence crystallised a thought, slotted in a final piece of the puzzle. He knew, now, what Dumbledore was capable of. Not just power, although that duel in the Ministry lobby had been impressive, but manipulation. _Using Sirius' name like a weapon, a card to play to make me do what he wants. Fine. I can't do magic, so there's no point fighting back now. Have to wait and see._ Harry sat there for a few more moments, before pushing himself up off the wall, decision made.

* * *

Thirty minutes later, belongings packed up and shrunk down by the house elves, Harry and Professor McGonagall, along with Hedwig settled on his shoulder, were walking down the path towards the gatehouse, Hogwart's still light up like a fairytale castle atop the cliff on the other side of the lake. As they reached the other side of the gate, Harry turned back to see it one last time, and was first shocked, then simply resigned.

"It's...it's just a ruin." The wards that made the castle seem abandoned and unsafe to any non-magical who might get this close now affected him. That heartbreaking feeling inside intensified all over again at this final reminder.

"I'm sorry Harry." McGonagall was herself genuinely upset. Harry could see it plainly even if she tried to hide it. "This portkey will take you to the liaison office in London. They will help you adjust to your new life." She paused, still holding the portkey. "Not all of us agree with this treatment Harry, but I couldn't change the Headmaster's mind."

"Why?" Harry's tone was weak, his eyes still on the ruined castle. "Why so quickly, why...?" _Just why me, _he wanted to scream.

"Someone at St. Mungo's leaked your...condition on the first day. The Prophet ran with it, painted you as a muggle, as a threat to the castle somehow. The article was not particularly specific, as usual." McGonagall grimaced. "The pureblood parents wanted you gone; the idiots on the Board of Governors used it as an excuse to get at the Headmaster; and there were significant...disturbances amongst the students, tempers running high. Particularly in Gryffindor." She sighed. "Miss Granger and Mr Weasley have come to blows more than once. Apparently, Mr Weasley believes being magical is more important than friendship, and the resultant barrage of hexes from your friends Hermione, Luna and Neville, amongst others put him in St Mungo's temporarily. Nothing permanent, however." _Unfortunately,_ her tone seemed to say.

Harry started at her, mouth agape. _Ron wouldn't...but what about before the First Task last year...all those insults he threw at Hermione for studying hard. Maybe that was something else..._

"Professor, do you think you could ask Hermione to write to me at some point? Not immediately, but soon. I'd like to keep in touch with those I can trust."

"Certainly, Mr Potter. Now, it's time."

Then, for the last time, that rather unpleasant navel-jerk of portkey travel whisked Harry away.


	3. 2 - Storm's Coming

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter, Stargate or any other franchise which may enter into this fanfiction story. I don't profit from them, and they belong to JKR and MGM respectively.

* * *

A/N: Again, thank you to 'phoenix catcher' for permission to borrow, I highly recommend his story 'Cast between Worlds' if you haven't already found it. Also, thank you to everyone who favourited, reviewed or followed this story in the last couple of days. I swear I think I got more alerts from this story in the first twenty minutes or so than I have for both my other stories combined. It's very encouraging for a newbie though, so thanks. However, more reviews please! Thank you to those who've already done so. It's extremely helpful to know what others are thinking about my writing style and the plot (or plot holes) of the story itself - they guide and shape the future development of the story, so if you think I need to include something, or remove it, review! If I was writing this solely for my own entertainment, I wouldn't bother to publish it. This is for you folks as well.

**Reply to Elspeth (10/12/2012):** You're right, it's kind of weak. However, although I did think of the Horcrux idea, Dumbledore hasn't found the rest of them yet, so using that as an excuse even in vague terms would get Voldemort's guard up and he would take steps to protect the rest. Also, I was kind of rushing it out. I want to write Stargate, not HP (sorry HP fans, I can't really put Teyla in an HP story, so I need to get Harry to Atlantis pronto, since that's when the 'ship will begin.) Also, please turn on your PM, so that I won't have to take up other people's time as they read this note.

A/N 2: I do however want to emphasise this is an AU fic. Harry Potter is not the primary story universe; Stargate is (or rather will be as soon as I get to it), despite the fact that Harry is the main character. Post book 5, things have happened differently (such as the fact Dumbledore never told Harry the prophecy, as he was unconscious and the Horcrux was already gone), although the general shape of the HP plot remains the same for simplicity's sake – although Dumbledore has survived to the end this time. I don't want to clutter the narrative up by including minor stuff you can probably fill in for yourself the way you want it to happen. It's been a while since I actually read the HP books, and although I must have trawled through dozens if not hundreds of HP stories on this site in the past year or so (I read very fast – a welcome by-product of masses of research for my degree), I can't remember all the canon details.

This author's note is now 500 words long; I'd better get on with it so here's the chapter. Unfortunately it's basically all exposition of Harry life for two years after Hogwarts – the action will start soon, don't worry, and please just wade through it if it's boring – or be a sport and leave a review, so I can improve it!

* * *

**Chapter 2 – Storm's Coming**

"_If you want to see the sunshine, you have to weather the storm."_

_Frank Lane_

* * *

**Two Years Later – April 29****th****, 1998.**

The weather around Dover was unpleasant to say the least. High winds battered the lines of trees around the campus of the Duke of York's Military School. In his upstairs room in Allenbrooke Boarding House, Harry stood looking out at the turbulent evening, his eyes completely black, staring off into the distance in a thousand yard stare across the fields of the flat Kentish landscape.

After being expelled from Hogwarts in June 1996, the portkey had unceremoniously face-planted him into the office of one Jeremy Wilson. Wilson was, theoretically the liaison between the magical and non-magical worlds, and was supposed to aid magical persons in the transition between the two. However, in the eyes of the Ministry, his appointment had essentially been a token gesture, a part of Arthur Weasley's Muggle Protection Act of a few years before – Wilson was a squib, which clearly indicated exactly how important the traditionalist, conservative ministry viewed the position. However, Wilson was no idiot, and had made a life for himself outside the magical world as a Royal Navy officer before being wounded and medically discharged. Disturbed at the direction he saw the magical world taking, he volunteered for the Ministry post mostly at the behest of the non-magical Security Service, more commonly known as MI-5, who wanted as much information on the Wizarding Britain as possible.

Harry had been spirited away for a week-long debriefing by the Security Service, who, he was very surprised to learn, had been aware of the magical population since the Second World War. Although any witnesses to the various magical battles fought between Grindelwald's followers and the Allied wizards had been swiftly obliviated, general references to such events had appeared in ultra-high level, and supposedly encrypted transmissions sent between members of the German High Command, with whom Grindelwald was coordinating, or controlling depending which history you read. The Enigma machine, which the Germans believed essentially unbreakable, had in fact been decrypted and their innermost secrets read. These vague allusions to a second, hidden society living in secret in several other European countries such as occupied France had alarmed the paranoid wartime authorities who, after carefully, and secretly investigating, discovered their own fairly rapidly. The then Prime Minister, Winston Churchill had already known (as the Ministry of Magic had deigned to contact him when he took office concerning its existence,) but he had been prevented from mentioning it to any who did not already know about magic. Since he no longer had to break that prohibition, as his security chiefs had found out for themselves, he chose instead to set up an independent security department to monitor the Wizards during and after the war.

Section M, as it was known to its members, was a small team which had initially not had much priority and had therefore lacked detailed information concerning wizards. When however Voldemort went on his first reign of murder and terror in the late 1970s, with non-magical citizens being murdered mysteriously (to the regular authorities, anyway) left, right and centre, it became clear that there was a very real threat in the magical world, inside Britain's own borders that might very well cross over into the normal one. Although they had been unprepared and unable to act openly in the first war, the lessons learned meant that the Section was reorganised, given more authority and, where possible took steps to provide a final line of defence should the Ministry of Magic fail.

They seized on Harry as a source of valuable information on the current state of the Wizarding world. Developments in modern technology (and the complete failure of the magical world to understand or find counters to those developments) meant that satellites and reconnaissance aircraft had been able to get images, albeit slightly distorted, of the various magic enclaves such as Diagon Alley and even thermal images of Hogwarts itself (which was still a ruin to normal cameras), so they were aware of the general shape and layout of Wizarding Britain. Wilson had given them some access to political information, as had reading the various news sources, books and a number of carefully cultivated informants. However, to get a first person account from an individual who had previously been close to the heart of the fight was a critical event for them. After four days of exhaustive but friendly questioning on anything and everything they could think of, along with promises of assistance to set up his new life from MI-5, Jeremy Wilson and Harry got down to beginning his assimilation into the Muggle world.

First, Jeremy (or Jerry as he preferred,) had made sure he was declared Harry's legal guardian. This had proven to be easier than anyone had thought, as the Vernon and Petunia Dursley had never bothered to file the proper paperwork after Harry had been left on their doorstep by Dumbledore in 1981; this meant that Harry's legal status was in a kind of limbo in the muggle world. The Ministry of Magic was also apparently very eager to sweep the fact that the 'Boy-Who-Lived' was now without magic under the rug, so they had no objection to a squib that was also a minor ministry official taking guardianship of him. Since his parents had died without leaving any specific direction on his guardianship, (which was what had allowed Albus 'Supreme Mugwump' Dumbledore to place Harry with the Dursleys in the first place), this combination of limbo and apathy had enabled Jerry to gain guardianship in both worlds, and authority over access to Harry's vaults on his behalf, thereby frustrating the attempts of Dumbledore to continue his own illegal 'guardianship' for that very same reason, although the old man had tried to be subtle about it.

Potter family inheritance law had not denied Harry his inheritance, a fact which had rather surprised both of them somewhat after Jerry had informed him of the family's extremely ancient, noble pureblood status – both of them had expected at least a minimum of the usual pureblood bigotry, despite the Potter's solidly light-sided reputation. The Goblins had also assisted with the plan to thwart Dumbledore, as they were keen to one-up the Ministry, by whom they had been treated in law as 'magical creatures' rather than as actual people for generations. At Harry's request they had liquidated the Potter fortune's gold and wizarding investments and moved it all into an institution which represented them in the non-magical world. Coutts & Co., one of the oldest banks in the world, and based on The Strand in London was the Goblin's front into the mundane world, and the infinitely more extensive and complex muggle world financial markets actually netted the canny magical bankers the majority of their total profits – not that they would ever mention that little tip-bit to the Ministry. As it was now in a muggle bank he wouldn't be able to inherit until he was eighteen, instead of the seventeen years old Wizards used as their age of majority, but that was fine with Harry. As it was, he now had several hundred million pounds waiting for him to turn eighteen, and although that was a very welcome safety net, he didn't intend to spend anything more than he needed, which wasn't much. The rest would be invested on his behalf by the Goblins, who he trusted to be honest when that much money was involved.

While Jerry was regaining control over his finances, Harry was five years behind on a normal education. Wilson, with the added weight of the Security Service who were feeling generous after the windfall of information Harry had just provided, was able to arrange a crash course not only in Muggle life, but in all three sciences, English literature, advanced level mathematics and the basics of a couple of foreign languages, Spanish and French. The importance of the work was not lost on Harry, who quickly discovered that if he put his mind to it, and didn't shirk like he had so often at Hogwarts, he was a very quick learner. Eighteen rather brutal months later, Harry had rapidly caught up with his age group, and had specialised somewhat in maths and sciences. Deciding that if he couldn't fly brooms, he could still fly aircraft, Harry had set his sights on the Royal Air Force as his chosen career early in the catch-up process. He had already aced the flying aptitude tests and thoroughly enjoyed the half-dozen familiarisation flights that the Security Service had been able to wrangle for him as a favour for letting them trawl through letters from his friends as more potential sources of information. He was also top of his class in glider training, which had only cemented his ambitions. Fortunately, his vision had improved inexplicably while he'd been unconscious after the Ministry battle, and his scar, while still present also seemed less pronounced, and hadn't once caused him pain since that day either. He still had no specific explanation either of those things, but his vision was now better than 20/20; lucky for him, as he knew the RAF would never let him fly if he'd still had glasses. In the meantime he'd decided not to mention it, just in case.

Of his friends at Hogwarts, Hermione was the most thorough in her relaying of news. She had responded to his request to stay informed by writing pages and pages of information, roughly every fortnight: part of the intel MI-5 had so coveted. Neville, Luna and Ginny, amongst others also all corresponded with him, albeit on a far less regular basis. The latter had initially tried to apologise for her older brother's actions, but even if Harry had not directly experienced them, the betrayal still hurt. He replied bluntly to say that it wasn't her apology he was seeking, and that he wouldn't accept it from Ron anyway – they were done.

The door opening behind him didn't startle him, but his eyes reverted from infinite black to emerald green as he blinked, before turning around. "Hey, Hetty."

Henrietta Kirkland stood leaning on the door frame The medium height, auburn haired girl was an Army cadet at the tri-service Ministry of Defence school, and was their year-group's Senior Under Officer, or SUO. She was also Harry's best friend at the school, and had helped him through plenty of rough patches during his time there, putting up with his often rather brooding presence, dark moods and occasional bouts of depression with relentless cheerfulness.

"The Colonel wants to see you, he's in his office. Also, please can you please stop disrupting the sports? It's difficult enough to run a school-wide tennis competition even without gale-force winds blowing the balls out of the court."

"Sorry. Just a minute. And they weren't gale force, just...close." Harry's eyes turned black for a few seconds, no iris or whites visible, as he reached out with his senses and increased the barometric pressure around the school, before fading back to normal. "It'll die out on it's own in the next twenty minutes."

The violent removal of his magic had changed something within Harry. Over the six months or so after being expelled, he'd slowly gained control over a new, completely unique set of powers that apparently had nothing to do with magic. The genetic quirk that had made him a wizard apparently gave him access to different abilities if that power was absent. Harry's new talents enabled him to alter atmospheric pressure, temperature, moisture content and electrical charge through as yet unknown means; basically, weather manipulation, allowing him control over some truly awe-inspiring storms and lightning strikes, although he couldn't yet significantly influence large, naturally occurring weather formations. This rather useful set of powers also apparently had some link to his emotions, and the bouts of depression that he had suffered, especially at the start had resulted in the Dover area having some of the worst few years of weather that any local could remember.

Section M had exercised considerable restraint in investigating the parameters and source of this power, believing (probably correctly) that if they couldn't even begin to explain where magic came from then they wouldn't have much luck with Harry's even more unusual abilities. They chose instead to forego scientific investigation in the interest of maintaining security. Once he expressed an interest in the Air Force, the Section had brought his ambitions, and potential abilities, to the attention of the very highest echelons of the RAF and MoD, most of whom were also already in the know about the magical world, in case the whole situation went FUBAR (1) too quickly to give them the background information: something which it obviously had the potential to do now that Voldemort was back. Once they got over the general disbelief, the various Air Marshalls were keen, to say the least, on the idea of having someone as potentially powerful as Harry in the service.

At the school, Hetty and the headmaster Colonel Sunderland were the only ones in the know for obvious reasons– the colonel because MI-5 and the Air Force brass had pointedly explained Harry's potential value as a member of the military, and therefore that , and Hetty because she was just plain smart. Back when Harry had started, she'd made a few unknowingly ill-advised remarks that had prompted rather severe emotional reactions from him that caused static charges and obvious rumbles of thunder. The word 'freak' had used in most of those instances, although not in relation to Harry, and the years of emotional neglect and physical abuse from the Dursley's had made it a trigger word. He'd managed to train himself out of it, however, with Hetty's help. She'd confronted him, although not aggressively, and straight out asked him what exactly was different about him.

Unwilling to sacrifice their nascent friendship, Harry had at first avoided the question, before calling Wilson as his de facto guardian and persuading him to let Harry tell her. Once persuaded, Jeremy had come to the school personally with an MI-5 officer to help prove it – and to get her to sign a non-disclosure agreement. With the secrets out of the way, Hetty had become his rock in a still-unfamiliar world. She had taught him meditation to help concentration and control his powers; it had been a part of her martial arts training from her father Daniel – a former Army physical training and combat instructor – who had included Harry in that training when he came to stay with them for long periods over the holidays. Pushing himself to the limit, given his already time-consuming academic catch-up programme, Harry had managed to get up to a reasonably proficient level in the two-handed fighting style Eskrima.

Saying goodbye to Hetty, Harry made his way outside and across to the main building where Colonel Sunderland's office was located. He knocked, and entered at a muffled "Come in," from inside, where the Colonel was sitting behind his desk. Sunderland looked up at Harry, caught his eye and meaningfully glanced out the window, before raising his eyebrow.

"It'll blow over shortly sir, or so I'm told." Harry dead-panned, and the room's other occupant snorted.

"Yes, I'm sure you would know, Harry." Henry Pearce was a bulky, older man with rapidly receding hair, sitting on the couch against the wall to the right. "After all, your weather _prediction_ talents border on the ... _magical_, don't they now." Pearce was the head of Section D, the Security Service's counter-terrorism department, and the man in charge of its subdivision Section M. He was a very 'hand-on' kind of commander, and as such he'd been very much involved with Harry's initial debriefing at Thames House (2), personally sitting in on several of the sessions and still occasionally called for clarifications or to ask more questions.

"Again, so they tell me sir." Witty repartee complete, Harry turned to the Headmaster. "Colonel, the SUO said you wanted to see me?"

"Chief Pearce does. This conversation is apparently need-to-know – and I don't – so I'm going to take a walk." Sunderland stood up and moved to leave. "Harry, good luck with whatever it turns out to be; Henry, don't steal my cigars when you leave. I know your tricks, spook."

Pearce didn't deign to respond to that, just smirked and nodded goodbye as the Colonel left. With the door shut, he turned to Harry.

"It's starting. Voldemort's begun massing forces near Hogwarts, about twenty five kilometres into the Forbidden Forest, which is actually in the Grampian Mountains. They're magically concealed, but still relatively visible on thermal and satellite cameras. Phoenix drone overflights put the numbers at several thousand, including a number of giants and possibly a dragon, but that's only an estimate. Our estimate is that we've got about twenty-four to forty-eight hours before he attacks the castle, so we're moving some military assets to provide assistance in addition to the plan we've already worked out. Major Cooper and his squadron are already gearing up, and I've got a helicopter down at Dover ferry port waiting to take us to Hereford."

"Understood. You still want me to fry him?"

Pearce winced. "I wouldn't put it like that."

"Of course not. You still think I'm your best shot at getting through to Voldemort, since you can't be sure a bullet will get through his shields."

"Indeed. And yes, that is still the plan. The Royal Artillery will have a full regiment of howitzers to provide fire support. Only the battery and regimental commanders are briefed in on magic though, so the rest of them have been told it's a live fire exercise. Since they're shooting at targets well over the horizon, it shouldn't be a problem."

"Right. I'll go grab my kit and meet you out front, sir."

Exiting the office, Harry jogged back to Allenbrooke House and upstairs to his room. From under the bed he slid a grab-bag, a small carrying case containing his combat uniform and a Browning Hi-Power 9mm side arm with two spare clips. The British military was not in the habit of issuing guns to teenage cadets, but again MI-5 had intervened, pointing out that Harry was still under threat but without a wand, and so another exception had been made, albeit extremely grudgingly and on the condition that Harry both trained on it at least weekly and re-qualified every three months – that amount of practice, combined with the very quick reaction times and high level of hand-eye coordination that had made him the youngest Quidditch seeker in a century had ensured that he was by now a very good pistol shot.

A short car ride with Pearce took them to a deserted area behind a warehouse in Dover harbour, where an executive helicopter was waiting, engines already spinning up. Just over an hour later, they were touching down at an airstrip a few miles from Credenhill Barracks, the home of Her Majesty's 22nd Special Air Service Regiment, the original modern Special Forces unit and the template for dozens of similar organisations around the world.

D Squadron, 22 SAS was the unit that had been briefed and trained to fight against the Death Eaters. Divided into four sixteen-man troops, commanded by a major and four captains as troop commanders. Harry and Jeremy Wilson had been a part of their briefing, and Harry had trained with them a handful of times because he was the one non-magical person with the 'punch' to fight on an even footing at close quarters with wizards. The hardened SAS soldiers, almost all veterans of some particularly brutal conflicts in the Falklands, the Gulf War and the Balkans had at first been extremely sceptical of the tactical value of a sixteen-going-on-seventeen Air Force cadet. However, after Harry pretty much demolished their shooting range with a lightning strike when demonstrating his abilities they got over their cynicism and got used to the idea that this 'teenager' could blast them with hundreds of thousands of volts of natural electricity. Several of them had taken the time to help him with his marksmanship and martial arts practice, teaching him all the 'dirty fighting' tricks that Daniel Kirkland didn't, as he was more of a straight-laced competition fighter, who didn't have to use his skills to survive on missions.

Waiting for them was a tall, rangy man dressed in British Army DPM camouflage with a Major's crown insignia on his rank tab, wearing a sand-coloured beret with an SAS cap badge – a winged dagger with the motto 'Who Dares Wins' inscribed beneath (3). Major Cooper, commander of Sabre Squadron Delta, or D Squadron was a legend even in the SAS, having served in the Regiment for close on twenty years, nearly his entire career. He'd even refused promotion several times simply because he didn't want to give up being a field soldier. To his credit, he'd barely even blinked when MI-5 had strolled in through the door with this perfectly normal looking teenager in tow, and told him he'd be in charge of putting down an army of murderous domestic pseudo-neo-Nazi terrorists, armed with abilities told of in fairy tales – and that the 'teenager' could throw around similar, although apparently different supernatural powers and would be along for the ride.

"Evening sir, evening Harry; we're about ready to move out, so let's go."

Pearce nodded at him, then turned to Harry. "I'm heading back to London, to brief the Prime Minister on the response plan. Good luck and good hunting, kid."

"Thank you, sir." Pearce nodded again, and walked back to the helicopter idling on the pad.

"Okay, Major, where're we going?" Cooper turned away and waved for Harry to follow him as he answered.

"We're moving to a staging area at Aberdeen Airport. It's the closest place that we can park the helicopters for more than a few hours that also has fuel resupply without anyone asking too many awkward questions. If anyone asks, it's a training exercise. Hercules C-130 is waiting, so let's go."

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**May 1****st**** 1998, Forward Staging Area - Aberdeen Airport, Hangar Three.**

Almost forty-eight hours later, Harry was both bored and extremely anxious. A normal person would have been fidgeting; Harry was stock still, meditating, as he focused on _not_ causing thunderstorms and random lightning strikes, which wasn't exactly a problem normal people had to deal with.

The shout of "Gear up, we've got the call!" from Sergeant Major McDiarmid was an extremely welcome relief. Harry sprang up from his cross-legged position and loaded up with an MP5 sub-machine gun and combat webbing over medium-grade body armour. Around him, a few SAS troopers loaded up with heavy-calibre sniper rifles and plenty of spare ammo in small patrol backpacks Only five soldiers and Harry were left, as they would be inserted by helicopter: two sniper-spotter teams and Sergeant Major McDiarmid, who was to be Harry's designated bodyguard. As the most critical but also the least trained member of the squadron he'd need all the help he could get to stay alive. The six of them would be deposited on the 'Dark Tower,' formerly used as a prison and the only one with a flat open roof as opposed to a steeply angled tile one, and Harry and his watchful protector would make their way down through the castle out into the fight directly, while the shooters would have a clear line of sight to the Forbidden Forest and the bridge that led towards the Castle from it.

Major Cooper had felt that although the Special Forces' helicopters (a pair of Aerospatiale Gazelle light helicopters and a flight of four AgustaWestland A109-A combination transport/gunships that had been 'appropriated' – a polite word for 'stolen' – from the Argentines in the Falklands) had been modified and hardened against the electronic-magnetic interference of Hogwart's wards and magical field, it was too much to risk inserting his entire force onto a single tower. It would take too long for every single helicopter to land and unload one at a time, and the tower might be sealed from the inside by enemy forces, trapping them in a very confined space. Thus he had opted to airlift only a small fraction of his force while deploying the rest via Land Rovers.

The rest of the squadron was already in a concealed position near Hogwarts, and would time their arrival to be a few minutes after Harry had landed. They would not approach the main castle, as they were at a distinct disadvantage fighting experienced magical duellists at close quarters, and Cooper had again decided to play to the Army's strengths and utilise as much long-range firepower as he could. Following that logic, they had all been issued with either L118A 'Arctic Warfare' 7.62mm sniper rifles, MILAN guided missile launchers, 7.62mm General Purpose Machine Guns (GPMGs) and tripod-mounted 50-cal M2 heavy machine guns. They would take position at the West Tower, a building perched on a rocky outcrop some considerable distance outside the castle wall. From there, they had a gap of several hundred metres between them and the closest enemy forces, and the outcrop and attached tower would give the marksmen, gunners and missileers a high vantage point to lay down a horrific volume of concentrated fire. The snipers would pick off enemy leaders and other critical targets when identified; the heavy gunners would suppress and fix groups of enemies in place, and the MILAN operators would steer fragmentation warheads into those pinned enemy formations.

If that wasn't enough, Cooper had an EMP hardened radio to contact a regiment of AS-90 heavy howitzers twenty kilometres away; eighteen guns that could lay down huge amounts of high explosive shells when required. That was a last resort however – the government didn't want to show even the light-sided wizards just how much firepower those 'useless Muggles' could call upon unless absolutely necessary. A tracked Rapier anti-air missile vehicle would follow at the back of the vehicle column to deal with the potential threat of the dragon that the UAVs had seen.

The helicopter flight was only about twenty minutes. As they flew, with the two Gazelles in the lead flanked by the four A109's, Harry started altering the local atmospheric conditions. He wasn't whipping up a thunderstorm yet, as the helicopters would need to get in and out first, but he created the conditions for one and rode the edge, increasing air temperature near the ground and a cold front from the north. As they touched down, he would rapidly force the warm air up through the cold, creating an extremely concentrated, towering cumulus cloud filled with ice crystals. Then, he would electrically charge both those crystals, positive at the top of the cloud, negative at the bottom. This would give him pretty much on-call lightning strikes, as he could instantaneously charge a target with positive ions, and since opposites attract, nature would do the rest. It would take about fifteen minutes to lift the warm air up and kick-start the 'mature stage' of the storm, but the ionisation of the cloud was instantaneous and repeatable. The result would be an extremely localised, extremely violent thunderstorm that would take several hours to dissipate if he didn't keep it going. It had taken a lot of time to learn to multi-task controlling the storm while remaining aware of the situation around him, but he still missed things – which was why the extremely lethal Sergeant Major McDiarmid would be watching his back.

Storms aside, they still had the problem that they couldn't see Hogwarts. Harry had innocently asked Hermione in a letter over a year before if he would be able to see the true Hogwarts ever again – she of course had headed off to the Library to research it, and had returned with the answer that if he got close enough, just touching it would reveal it to him. During their planning, Harry and Cooper had used descriptions of the dimensions of the Castle from 'Hogwarts: A History' to get a three-dimensional model of the towers and buildings. The solution they came up with was simple and effective, but would remain untested until it had to actually work.

As they approached Hogwarts, the sun had just fallen. Harry could see multi-coloured flickers of light as the pitifully outnumbered forces of 'the Light,' engaged the Death Eaters coming out of the Forbidden Forest to the south – that part was not hidden by the wards like the castle was. They were clearly losing – they were already retreating, although it was barely controlled and more of a rout than a tactical retreat. In the middle distance, the Land Rovers of Cooper's convoy had blasted through the Castle's wrought-iron outer gate at high speed and were pulling off the track leading to the Castle, still concealed from both sides as they pulled up behind the West Tower outcrop and began unloading the heavy weapons components.

Hogwarts still looked like a ruin. Harry felt a moment of intense sadness as he looked at the crumbling façade – even if this worked, he'd never be able to return, either to the castle or to magic. He shook the feeling off as the Gazelle flared out, still apparently a long way above the ruin.

This was the idea they had come up with. Even though concealed, the castle was still there. A helo that flew too low would slam into an invisible, unyielding wall of stone. Therefore, the pilots had studied the three-dimensional model of the Castle that had been created. They used altitude and GPS instruments only, coming to a hover precisely about ten metres above where the flat-topped Dark Tower should be. Harry and McDiarmid, on opposite sides of the helicopter, cracked a half-dozen chemical lightsticks each, and scattered them in a fan-shaped arc below them.

It worked. Although some of the cyalume lights had continued to fall to the ground almost thirty metres lower, some appeared to float in mid-air ten metres down from the helicopter. Relaying instructions on the intercom, Harry guided the small helicopter in lower, throwing out more lightsticks in an effort to better define the target area. When he judged that he had a clear idea of the tower's dimensions and wasn't about to go tumbling off the edge, he slid the headset off and flipped a salute to McDiarmid, before throwing himself out the door.

Harry had guided the helo in as close as he dared, but he still fell two or three metres, tucking into a parachutists roll to lessen the impact. It still hurt, but he hadn't broken, sprained or twisted anything. As his boots hit the invisible stone, Hogwarts would have appeared before him in a kind of blink-and-you miss it moment. Unfortunately, he was too busy sprawling on the slick granite to really appreciate it, even if he was thankful for not falling to his death. Staggering to his feet in the down-wash of the helicopter, Harry popped flares, laying them on the parapet around the edge of the roof, allowing the pilots to accurately define where to position the side doors so the snipers and McDiarmid could offload in a safer manner. After the Sergeant Major hit the roof, he handed Harry his MP5, which he'd left behind so as to be able to roll properly. Finding the heavy wooden door to the roof locked, and too solid to kick in, the SAS officer opted to rig a small breaching charge on the lock, the sharp crack of the explosion lost in the roar of the helicopter blades overhead. Taking one last look around, McDiarmid pronounced in a bored tone, "Interesting place, this," before entering the spiral staircase. Despite his nervousness, Harry grinned. That was about as close as the dour Scottish soldier was ever going to get to expressing jaw-dropping wonder.

By the time the two of them had worked their way down through the castle to the Entrance hall, the gunships had completed their strafing run, flying in a tight column of four down the length of the Dark force's line, firing their entire loadout of rocket and machine gun ammunition before bugging out to the south after the Gazelles so that Harry could 'bring the storm.'

"Bet those helo's were an unpleasant surprise." McDiarmid smirked. Harry could only agree. The vast majority of the two magical factions probably had no earthly idea what had just attacked them; a sad comment on the regressive isolationism the wizards had practice for so long, however strong their reasons. The strafing run meant that Cooper and D Squadron would commence firing shortly – it was intended mostly as a distraction as they finished setting up, get the wizards looking to the skies before the real sledgehammer hit them from the flank.

The Great Hall, which Harry could see into from his position at the bottom of the stairs had been turned into a battlefield hospital, with Ministry medical staff tending to the fallen. There were too many; some casualties were laid out in the Entrance Hall, and Poppy Pomfrey was flitting between them. She caught sight of Harry as she stood up from over one of the stretchers, and her surprised expression would have been comical in any other situation. She barely even noticed the fully tooled-up soldier behind him.

She spluttered incoherently, which too would have been an amusing departure from her usual unflappable attitude had it not been for the dead and dying around them. "Harry ... Mr Potter ... what on earth ... where ... how ..."

Harry interrupted as he continued past. "Doesn't matter right now, ma'am. Just keep them alive."

She snapped back to her usual professional mien and got right on it as Harry, shadowed by the watchful McDiarmid jogged out of the main entrance into a passable imitation of Hell.

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**_AHHHH__ – cliffhanger, sort of. I just wanted to get the update out, since some of you were begging so nicely (cue evil laugh). I'll write the rest of the battle for you in the next few days, never fear. _**

A/N 3 – as you can probably tell, I'm a big fan of military fiction. Sorry if all the jargon is putting you off – just wiki it if it doesn't make sense, or leave a comment if you think it's too much. As I stressed at the start, this story _is _primarily a military story. There's going to be a lot of this kind of thing.

A/N 4 – I've also taken some serious liberties with the meteorology of storms. Don't believe a word I write about that, just roll with it. It sort of works. If you squint real hard at the Wiki page.

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_**TRIVIA! Or the footnotes, for all the technical bits**_

FUBAR = F***** up beyond all recall – military slang for everything going to hell in a hand-basket.

Thames House is the headquarters of the Security Service, as opposed to Vauxhall Cross, which is the HQ of the Secret Intelligence Service, more commonly known as MI-6. For those that like useless info, SIS HQ is also known as 'Legoland' and 'Babylon-on-Thames' for its distinctive (*_cough_* downright odd *_cough_*) architecture.

The famous SAS badge isn't actually a winged dagger (shock horror, do I hear from all you military buffs out there). Designed in 1941 by Bob Tait, one of the regiment's founding members, it's actually a downward pointing Excalibur (yes, King Arthur's sword) wreathed in flames, on a Crusader Shield. No one knows exactly when that particular misconception of the winged dagger started, but it's become deeply embedded in pop culture, so I'll call it that.


	4. 3 - Bring the Rain (2nd Version)

This chapter has been significantly rewritten in response to some extremely accurate, if somewhat rude reviews that suggested I was overusing the stereotypes quite a bit – I was a bit annoyed after I read them, and didn't 'approve' them, so you won't see them on the site; however, they stuck in my mind. So I've changed the Dumbledore/Ron parts quite a bit, as well as the end of the battle. Overall the reviews have been positive, but the near-flamers were kind of right this time around. Please let me know if you think I've gone and ruined it! Fundamentally, things are the same, just less clichéd.

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**Disclaimer**: I don't own anything, obviously.

**Credit**: Again, thank you to 'phoenix catcher' for permission to borrow, I highly recomend his story 'Cast between Worlds' if you haven't already found it. Also, thank you to all those that favourited (139 total), followed (215) or reviewed (53) since this epic journey started! (Cliché much there?) Its also been added to 19 communities and had a total of 9,151 views.

Reply to Elspeth (12/12/12): I couldn't agree more. And thank you.

Don't worry about the technical bits of the artillery; they're just there for atmosphere mostly. I just wanted to draw on my own minimal personal experience as much as possible to provide as much realism as I could in a fundamentally _very_ fictional story. It will probably surprise no-one that my favourite author is Tom Clancy, and this story will be written very much in his style. I wanted to convey the complexities of coordination in large-scale warfare nowadays, and how powerful it can be when done correctly.

Finally – to the Guest reviewer whose contribution came just a tad close to flaming – thanks for your input. I took it to heart, as I was already leaning in that direction anyway. I'm a fundamentally 'happy story' kind of guy, so the whole 'bashing' angle, (although quite persuasive when done well,) is hard to do right, and is irritating when not. Clearly I didn't succeed, so I've tried to re-edit this chapter to tone it down a bit. Sorry if that annoys others, I genuinely think this version is better.

**WARNING – This chapter contains gory battle scenes. Be warned.**

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**Chapter 3 – Bring the Rain**

"_Thunder is good, thunder is impressive; but it is lightning that does the real work."_

_Mark Twain_

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**May 2nd 1998, ****Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scotland.**

The courtyard under the Clocktower was littered with debris. Apparently a medium-sized group of Death Eaters had managed to get behind the defenders, and the duels were fast and fierce. Even as Harry and McDiarmid exited, two white-masked foes turned to them, preparing to cast what would surely be some extremely unpleasant magic. They were thrown back violently, two sharp cracks sounding from the tower now up and off to the right, lost in the general din of the battle. Neither Harry nor his guard bothered to wave or give a thumb's up; they were still just trying to stay alive.

Across the bridge, the defenders had been herded back into a tight semicircle just the other side of the bridge, taking cover among the Standing Stones. They were all far too busy to notice the two muggles skidding to a stop behind them, as someone on the opposition had noticed their vulnerable salient position and sent forward three giants to take advantage of it. The big but rather dumb humanoids would do maximum damage against a closely packed formation with their oversized clubs. However, even as the assorted blue-cloaked Aurors, red cloaked Order members and various other professors, citizens and older students raised their wands tiredly, two flaming contrails split the night overhead, followed rapidly by the high-frequency '_hissssss_' of a missile motor in flight. The MILAN projectiles were steered to their targets by the operators via an incredibly thin wire that unwound behind the missile while in flight. About five metres short of the hulking giants, the proximity fuses of the missiles' fragmentation warheads detonated, blasting two of the oversized monsters clear off their feet with a concentrated cone of hyper-velocity shrapnel as well as the overpressure wave of the explosion itself.

The astonished wizards of both sides turned to the source of these destructive streaks of light. The West Tower was now alight with muzzle flashes, as the non-magical soldiers commenced fire, the experienced gunners maintaining control of their weapons' accuracy by firing rapid bursts of three to five rounds rather than just fully auto. Blue and green tracers lit the night like fireflies – if fireflies flew at about a kilometre per second and could rip limbs off. Some of the Dark Wizards tried to put up Protego shields, but most weren't fast enough, and many of those that managed to were too weak to stop more than one or two rounds.

Arrayed on the West Tower outcrop were ten M2 fifty calibre HMG's, ten 7.62 GPMG's, five MILAN launchers and nine sniper/spotter teams under the direction of Major Cooper, who was marking targets by firing bursts of red tracer rounds from his weapon. The assistant gunners for the M2s and MILANS were also chipping in with 5.56mm SA80 assault rifles whenever they weren't assisting with crewing or reloading their assigned weapon.

The sheer weight of fire certainly wasn't just 'one or two rounds'; it couldn't even be described as intense. It was simply insane.

The hailstorm of bullets scythed through the Dark lines. The M2s in particular were having a devastating effect, firing a mixture of normal 'ball' full metal jacket tracer rounds and specialist Raufoss Mk 211 'combined effect' rounds. Designed to penetrate light armoured vehicles before exploding inside, their official name was 'High-Explosive-Incendiary-Armour-Piercing' (HEIAP). They were just about borderline legal under the Geneva Convention for use on human beings, but only because the round actually passed _through_ the person before the RDX explosive and incendiary phosphorous components ignited, simultaneously detonating with the force of low-strength hand grenade while also setting things on fire (if it had done so _inside_ a human, then it would be illegal, for whatever difference that made).

The third hapless giant caught the brunt of the initial wave of these bullets, and was literally torn apart. The hastily thrown up shields, designed primarily to counter magical attacks rather than kinetic impacts (which were relatively rare in magical duels), failed under the barrage and the front ranks of Voldemort's forces began to flee as the small detonations of the Mk211's 'walked' up and down their formation, interspersed with the larger MILAN explosions, leaving bodies in their wake.

Dumbledore, in the centre of the circle of the defenders stood dumbfounded at the deadly light show. _I thought those things earlier might be muggle flying machines, but they can't possibly be armed or that agile; and how did they work within Hogwarts, the magic should have stopped them. What is happening? I hope they're on our side; we can use all the help we can get._ Turning, he thought he might find an explanation from Hermione who had been fighting to his right. _She's muggle-born she can tell me what's happening. _

Finding her, he began to speak, but trailed off when he saw that she was distracted by something. Following her gaze, he saw Harry Potter of all people, standing there in some kind of dark patterned clothing, smirking at him. _What's he doing here? __How did he get past the wards __– and I thought the prophecy must have been complete when the Horcrux was gone._Dumbledore in turn was distracted as Hermione practically tackled Harry, babbling too fast to really understand due to adrenaline and combat fatigue.

"OhmygodHarrywhatreyoudoinher eyoullgetyourselfkilled..." and so on. Harry stood firm under the well meaning onslaught for a few seconds, while McDiarmid shifted nervously, acutely aware of the many gazes now fixed on them in the relative lull in the fighting as the Death Eaters tried desparately to fall back under the rain of lead. _At least the outer layers of 'good-guy' wizards are still fighting instead of watching the ' amateurs, dropping their guards like that._

Neville also appeared out of the crowd, and clapped Harry on the back with a nod of welcome, with a little smile at Hermione's continued verbal assault of Harry.

"Hermione!" Harry snapped, "focus, please. We are in the middle of a battle; you may have noticed."

"Sorry. Uh, it's just been a long time."

"I know. But I'm back." Harry looked straight at Dumbledore. "And I can end this once and for all."

Dumbledore hesitated, wondering how to approach this unexpected development. _After all, I treated the boy badly after the Ministry…but he had no magic, he simply wasn't needed any more...it was for the greater good, his own protection, for him to leave Hogwarts._ While he was dithering, an oily voice cut in, proving once and for all that Professor Severus Snape simply didn't know when to keep his mouth shut or his temper in check where a Potter was concerned.

"_Potter_." The word was drawn out, oozing disgust. "_What_ is a useless _muggle_ like you doing here?" Snape was having a bad day. He'd been all set up to take advantage of whichever side won, professing his loyalty to both Dumbledore and Voldemort, until the Dark Lord had sent him a message last night telling him to kill the Headmaster and to bring him the Elder Wand.

Snape was a reprehensible, useless example of a human being in many respects, but stupid he wasn't. He knew the legend of the Deathly Hallows, even if he thought it was a load of dragonshite up until the night before, and he knew that the wand's loyalty required the defeat of the previous owner. Voldemort wasn't known for doing things halfway, so provided he survived killing Dumbledore, Voldemort would most certainly finish the job in order to gain the wand's loyalty. All those plans gone to ruin. Hence, he was now stuck in the middle of this battle, fighting for a lot of useless bastards he didn't respect and barely even tolerated, and now his temper had gotten the better of him one final time, even if he didn't know it yet.

"Snivellus." Harry's tone was flat, emotionless. "I'm saving your greasy behind, that's what I'm doing."

It was too much for Snape's ego, to be insulted like that –_with that name – and in front of EVERYONE. Just like his father. Not for much longer_. Snapping up his wand, Severus Snape prepared his favourite curse, 'Sectumsempra'. Unfortunately, he'd chosen to ignore the _other _Muggle standing to Harry's right.

Squadron Sergeant Major Nigel McDiarmid was, by any measure of the words, an experienced soldier. So when that greasy one on the right (_What did Harry say his name was in the briefing? Several Snakes or something)_ stepped forward, his innate sixth sense for threats lasered in on the guy like a Tomahawk cruise missile. The SSM was an experienced hand to hand fighter, and knew how to read someone's 'tells' – the little behavioural signs that show when they're about to move, or strike. It wasn't always obvious, but McDiarmid trusted his gut, and surreptitiously raised his rifle to the ready position, with the safety already off and the muzzle pointing around Snape's feet. When Snape's neck muscles twiched, beginning to move his shoulder to lift his wand, McDiarmid reacted faster, purely on instinct, lifting the barrel the remaining six inches and double-tapping Snape in the chest with a sharp '_crack crack_', before the Potions Master was even halfway through the word or movement.

_Anything worth shooting is worth shooting twice_. Snape fell back, slumping and sliding down against a tall upright rock behind him, two star-shaped patterns of high-velocity blood spatter painting the stone red above his now deceased body.

The gunshots were mostly lost in the din of the battle – obviously, twenty heavy machine guns firing is bound to cause some noise even at 300 metres, and the SA80 is not a particularly loud rifle as such weapons go. The effect, however, was certainly not lost on the wizards standing around. _What the hell was that?_ was the dominant thought. They had all heard Snape begin the curse, a rather unpleasant one at that. _But that Muggle had just...done something...and Snape had just...died._

Ron Weasley pushed through the crowd; he took in the scene and assumed Harry had offed Snape. Predictably his foot in mouth syndrome appeared in full force. Very unusually however, he summed up everyone's thoughts perfectly for perhaps the first, only and maybe the last time in his life.

"Bloody hell, mate!"

"Mate?" Harry didn't even look at Snape's cooling body. He looked straight at Ron, past Neville who stepped slightly to the side, pinning him to the spot with an emerald green glare and icy, cutting tone. Even though his eyes remained normal, thunder and lightning flashed in concert in the stormclouds overhead, now near-black with unfallen rain preventing light from shining through. "Don't try that again, Ron. I've learned from the Goblet of Fire incident – and I no longer give second chances. We're done. Now I'm going to save your useless hide, so stay out of my way."

Ron backed up, astonished and more than a little terrified of that glare and voice. _Harry's heard about what I said … bugger got to get out of here!_ He pushed away through the crowd again; _get away from that scary, scary person, that's not Harry. _Bravery incarnate Ron was not. Not cunning enough for Slytherin, not clever enough for Ravenclaw, not loyal enough for Hufflepuff; there was only one trait of the school founders Ron had in spades – recklessness. Of course, it was more though stupidity than courage, but that hadn't prevented his sorting into the House of the Brave.

However, to his horror, Ron quickly discovered that there was something scarier than a pissed off Harry.

Overhead, a roar sounded, and a dragon - a Hungarian Horntail, Harry noticed with a shudder - dived out of the low clouds over the Lake and made for the defenders around the Standing Stones. It was flying too low for the SAS gunners to engage it, and spells weren't very effective against the armoured magical creature. It skimmed the ground as it approached the hill, talons extending forward as it slid into a rapid landing, skidding _up_ the slope towards the defenders and ploughing a furrow in the soil*. It came to rest as it reached the Light-siders' lines, spell fire bouncing off its scaly hide, wings tucked in behind. It reared, wings now spread, preparing to flame the ground in front of it.

In this area was now a certain Weasley redhead.

Unable to do anything to help, Harry, Hermione and Neville as well as the other defenders on the hilltop took cover behind the stones. Superheated magical plasma scoured the far side, and the screams of those caught in the flames were terrible to hear, as Ron and most of their left flank was… cooked. Alive.

_Unpleasant_, thought McDiarmid, _but no worse than Napalm. Well, _he amended, _apart from the fact the weapon itself seems to be sentient_. _Let's try this…._

As the stream of fire ceased, McDiarmid rolled from the prone position he'd ended up in, up onto one knee. He was unaware of Dumbledore and several other magicals watching him in astonishment, wondering what the crazy muggle was going to try before he got killed. Switching his left hand to the pistol grip of the underslung 40mm grenade launcher he carefully took aim. _This is pretty close to point blank range…better get this right or I'll kill myself. _

The grenade had a minimum arming distance of ten metres – which was about how far away the Dragon's head was. McDiarmid watched as the dragon roared its triumph to the skies, and then brought its head down to focus on another knot of defenders down-slope who'd been just outside the cone of death last time. As the dragon opened its jaws to incinerate them, he fired the gas-propelled grenade in a flat arc straight down its throat.

Amazingly, the projectile didn't kill it. The dragon looked rather surprised at the explosion in the back of its throat (as much as such an animal could), and was clearly in pain, but didn't immediately die. Instead, it decided that the present location was apparently more dangerous than it had thought, and took off in a massive rush of warm air.

A few seconds later, it met a Rapier missile coming the other way.

The Rapier-equipped APC that had accompanied the SAS had acquired the dragon when it appeared, but been unable to fire as it had disappeared behind the hilltop. As it reappeared, rising slowly and vertically, it presented pretty much the optimum target the gunners would ever receive. Designed to engage supersonic air-to-ground fighter-bombers at the relatively short range of about ten kilometres, when the closure rates of the target to the battery were measured in milliseconds, the Rapier's bulbous optical tracking turret reacquired the dragon in three seconds flat, and fired in less than ten. The extremely quick and agile missile covered the distance in a mere blink of time, and detonated its proximity warhead in a similar manner to the MILAN's that had been used against the giants. The shrapnel blew the dragon's wing clean off, which surprised the wizards who were familiar with the legendary physical and magical toughness of the creatures. However, although a dragon's hide might stop spells effectively, it hadn't been tested against muggle weapons since the time of bows and arrows. And arrows don't travel at thousands of feet per second. Nor, generally are there hundreds of them impacting a relatively small area of the target.

With its wing now missing in action, the dragon pretty much fell out of the sky, completely unbalanced. Unfortunately, its tumble landed it on the edge of the cliff just down-slope from Harry, and inertia did the rest. Its mournful howl of desperation and pain was abruptly cut off by a huge splash a moment later.

However, even though the dragon was dealt with, the left perimeter was essentially gone. The Dark Forces were still being hammered, but were rallying desperately. More and more shields went up, and held, as someone in their ranks took control. _Voldemort? Probably not, he's too much of a showman, would've arrived with a bang. _The Death Eaters also began to work their way around the base of the hill, seeking to exploit the hole in the Light's lines the dragon had punched. Aurors and civilians rushed to fill the void, but they were spread too thin to do all that much good.

* * *

McDiarmid, professional that he was, stayed on track despite being completely out of his depth with _all this magic crap going on_, as he would describe it as later. Ignoring the wizards who had been stunned to silence by one of the rapid and violent dispatching of one of the more vicious and tough magical predators by an unknown weapon, the Sergeant Major stood, thumbing the transmit button for his small tactical radio. Even in the heat of a battle in which he was pretty much flying blind, the experienced NCO kept his discipline and spoke through the microphone slowly and clearly, just as he was trained to do.

"Hello Delta Zero, this is Delta Three Three. Message, over."

From the other end, Major Cooper's slightly garbled, but still recognizable voice. "_Delta Zero, copy Three Three, send traffic, over._"

"Message follows: enemy resistance is recovering. Our fire is not, repeat not getting through. Enemy is beginning to flank to the south, by the lake. Recommend fire support, over."

"_Copy, enemy regaining initiative, flanking to the south. Any Sierra callsign, do you have a visual on Enemy Bravo, over?"_ Cooper was checking to see if his eyes in the sky, the marksmen on the Dark Tower could see Voldemort.

"_Negative, Delta Zero."_

"_Sierra Two One, negative."_

"Delta Zero, this is Three Three. No choice, Major. Bring the rain."

"_Copy, call for fire. Standby, out."_

* * *

Twenty-two kilometres away to the North West, the headquarters vehicles of 4th Regiment Royal Artillery were, to all intents and purposes, sitting in a field.

With the vehicles oriented to the South East, the vast majority of the Regiment was waiting for what they thought was a live-fire exercise. The regimental headquarters staff – the colonel, with one of his three battery commanders, a major (the others were deployed at alternate sites a few kilometres away to minimise the risk of the entire regiment being ambushed at once), the radio-telephone operator (RTO) and the fire coordination officer, a captain – were aware of the disquieting truth, however: that they were assisting in putting down what could well be categorised as the first truly dangerous armed insurrection on the British mainland in at several centuries. Never mind that the weapons were magic; it was still treason. The fact that the enemy was a bunch of neo-Nazi, ethnic-cleansing, bigoted aristocratic blue-blood supremacists just made the whole thing easier on their conscience.

The radio crackled to life. "_Romeo Zero, this is Delta Zero. Fire Mission, over."_

The regimental HQ, a medium-sized olive green canvas tent quickly set up over the back of a radio-equipped Land Rover, jumped to life. The battery commanders and the fire control officer shifted slightly, waiting for the rest of the data they would need to plot a firing solution.

"Delta Zero, this is Romeo Zero. Send mission, over."

"_Romeo, target is between Grid 4225-8785, extending south east to Grid 4260-8735, regimental sized force of tightly grouped, unarmoured enemy infantry in open ground and forest cover, request Mike-Romeo-Sierra-India sustained neutralisation barrage, proximity fuses, danger close, how copy, over."_

The RTO acknowledged the order while the officers started planning the fire mission. It was complex one, and took a few minutes to plan.

Four minutes, twenty seconds later: "Firing solution plotted, guns loaded, ready to fire."

The CO nodded. "Delta, this is Romeo. Ready to fire, on your order."

* * *

Four minutes, twenty seconds earlier...

Having heard the SSM's call for fire, Harry turned to him.

"How long have we got?"

The Sergeant Major shrugged, "Five minutes, less if the arty boys have their shit together." To Dumbledore: "Can you hold that long."

Dumbledore finally kicked his brain into gear. The long few months of hunting Tom's soul pieces and the incredibly tiring battle tonight had worn the old warlock down. He was still powerful, but his advanced age had massively reduced his endurance over long periods of magic use. Although Severus' death had shocked him, he admitted he wasn't terribly surprised. He'd suspected Snape of playing both sides, but the information provided was too valuable to shut down. And now, he'd been offered a chance for victory in what had seemed an impossible battle.

"Yes, I think. Why, what will happen then?"

"Then, they will die." McDiarmid pointed at the Death Eaters. "However, you or someone similarly powerful will need to raise a shield around this whole hilltop to protect us from the strike."

"Strike? What do you mean, and who are you exactly?" Dumbledore eyed McDiarmid a little suspiciously. "Your help is welcome, believe me, but who are you?"

"Sergeant Major McDiarmid, British Army. And to answer your next question, you're all citizens of Britain even if you've chosen to forget that little fact, so we're here to protect you, as that's our duty."

Dumbledore blinked. "What do you mean, chosen to forget? And how does the Muggle government know to be here …" he trailed off, as the full implications of that question hit him.

Harry grinned, although there wasn't much humour in it. "Shocked me too, Professor, when they told me they'd known about Wizards for over sixty years."

The Headmaster blanched, as he realised the Statute of Secrecy was little more than a piece of paper. "How…?"

McDiarmid shook his head. "Not now, it's not important. But you're going to face some harsh truths after this fight is over, and I for one think you've all been living under a rock for too long. However," he checked his watch, "in about three and a half minutes it's going to feel as if the world is going to be ending around us. If you can protect us, great. If not, you'll have to fall back, and soon.

Dumbledore hesitated. "Theoretically yes, I can, but without knowing the specifics of whatever you're going to do, I can't guarantee it."

"Okay. Since we're pretty much going to bring this place to the next lowest circle of hell, you'll have to fall back – being danger-close within two hundred metres of the mother of all artillery strikes is not something you fuck around with. Professor, keep the retreat organised – Harry, can you slow down their advance to the south?"

"Perhaps. Give me a moment."

Harry just let McDiarmid get on with it the tactics. But this, he could help with. Hermione and Neville looked at him questioningly, as did Dumbledore before he hurried away to organise the retreat.

"What's he talking about, Harry?"

Harry smirked at them. "This." And his green irises were replaced by a void of darkness.

To their credit, they didn't freak out. Hermione blinked, and Neville flinched, but they didn't step back or run away screaming from him. _Well, I suppose that's a good start. _

"Harry?" Hermione's voice was incredulous. "What the hell?"

Harry just grinned at her, while simultaneously intensifying the storm above them. "What, that's all it took to get you to swear?"

"Harry! Be serious!"

"Fine, fine. This is apparently a side effect of losing my magic." Harry gestured at the storm overhead. Aurors and students were streaming past them in groups of five now, making for the bridge. _Seems Dumbledore does know what he's doing. Well, he's good at falling back. So are the French, so it's not that hard._

Hermione looked up, then looked at Harry, her jaw dropping. _Would be funny, anywhere else._

"You're…controlling the storm?"

"Yep. Cool, huh?"

"Uh…yeah." Hermione was apparently still at a loss for meaningful words.

"Anyway, got to get on with it." Harry turned to the battle once more. Lightning lashed down, impacting the ground in front of the flanking Death Eaters, occasionally hitting them if they tried to push their luck. The advance ground to a halt, with the lightning containing them. A few of the more adventurous souls tried to put up shields and run underneath, but quickly found out that a) lightning really, really hurt, and b) magical shields don't stop ten million-plus volts of natural electricity.

Enemy contained within the killzone, Harry turned back to the group, to find Dumbledore had returned.

Dumbledore flinched when he met those jet-black eyes. Harry's hair was being ruffled by the wind, and in full muggle battledress, with those eyes, he was a scary sight even to the experienced old wizard.

Those eyes were the worst part: infinite, alien, utterly without mercy. They induced a primeval fear in those who saw them, the fear of a lesser animal as they look upon the apex predator, at their doom. But the old professor didn't back away. He knew that Harry had a right to be angry at him, had many reasons, but he stood his ground. Right or wrong, he'd done what he had for what he believed in, even if all that was crumbling around him, and he'd face the consequences as he had to.

"Mr Potter. I hope you know what you're doing."

Harry laughed. It wasn't a happy sound.

"_The power he knows not_, Professor." Dumbledore blinked. _How did he know... _"Hermione told me, Headmaster. As you should have. It didn't have to happen this way. I hated you so fucking much, after you kicked me out, but I came to understand something. When Hermione explained your philosophy, 'the greater good' and all that, I understood. I mean, it's laudable, in some respects. Taking the weight of the world upon your shoulders and all that, you're the only qualified person, yada, yada." Dumbledore was shocked at Harry's knowledge, then realised he shouldn't be. This wasn't the Harry he'd known three years ago. In his place was a cold, hard warrior, a boy … man, really, who had killed, and who could separate that part of himself – the stone cold killer - from the rest, and channel it, funnel it to the target, and box it up whenever it wasn't needed.

"However, the world didn't give you permission to make decisions for it, and the British people certainly didn't."

"The Ministry and many others have been coming to me for decades for advice..."

"Precisely Headmaster. Advice. Not, rather crucially, orders. Unless you're a ruthless dictator? I understand it can be hard to accept you're wrong after seventy years or more of being highly respected, but ruling in the name of utopia is as dangerous as anarchy and darkness, and potentially as evil. But this isn't the time." Harry turned to McDiarmid.

"Sergeant Major? How long?"

The senior NCO was eyeing the Dark lines, now no longer retreating but holding their ground; fortunately not yet advancing. "Any second now…"

Harry looked at the central group, which was now down to him, the Headmaster, McDiarmid, Hermione, Neville and the core of Hogwarts and the Order: Flitwick, McGonagall and a few other professors, Kingsley, Moody, Tonks and Lupin. _The Old Guard, _Harry mused. He told them to take cover behind a few of the large stones, and then prepared the protective measures he'd practised.

As he did so, McDiarmid's radio burst to life. "_Three Three, Delta Zero. Shot out, say again, shot out. And good luck. Zero out._"

As they took cover, heavy rain began to fall.

* * *

_A few seconds earlier…_

"_Delta, this is Romeo. Ready to fire on your order."_

Major Cooper hesitated for a moment. From his position on top of the West Tower, he could clearly see the blue-white magical shield three hundred metres away. He and his men were well inside the recommended six hundred metre safety distance for an artillery strike; Harry would be even closer, but had shown he could protect himself and others with his powers. _For what we are about to receive…oh get on with it._

"Romeo, this is Delta Zero. Fire for effect. Fire for effect."

With those words, a complex array of ballistic calculations went into effect.

Cooper had ordered an MRSI, or **M**ultiple **R**ounds **S**imultaneous **I**mpactbarrage, on a target seven hundred metres long by one hundred metres wide, a reasonably large area to cover. An MRSI required the initial barrage of three rounds from each gun to impact _at the same time_. This was achieved by firing the first shell on a very trajectory, then the second on a lower one, and the third even lower still, so that all three arrived at once in a brutally effective strike. MRSI's gave no warning as the AS-90 howitzer vehicles' computer assisted ballistics no longer required ranging shots to accurately aim.

To top that, the term 'sustained' required the batteries to continue to fire until the observer, in this case Cooper, judged the enemy ineffective or destroyed – or until they ran out of ammunition. The 155mm shells of the AS-90 self-propelled artillery were equipped with proximity fuses, simple radar altimeters in the nose-cone of the round itself. At a predetermined height above the ground – in this case thirty metres – the shell would detonate, sweeping the ground below it with a scythe of deadly shrapnel. There was no defence, and no cover – the vertical angle of attack was designed to ensure that – and the MRSI ensured there would be no warning.

The MRSI was intended to make sure that the first three rounds of each individual gun arrived together. 4th Regiment had three batteries of six guns – eighteen total –spread out tactically in separate troops of three guns, connected by radio and networked computers. They were all at slightly different ranges, requiring the computer to calculate precise flight and firing times for each troop – this required a TOT or '**T**ime-**O**n-**T**arget' calculation to ensure that each gun's volley arrived in sync with all the others.

The fireplan was uploaded from the HQ, barrels were elevated and turrets turned to a precise, computer-calculated trajectory that took into account ballistic parabolas, the earth's rotation, air temperature and wind directions – they could even compensate for Harry's alterations, as he had described the atmospheric changes he would make to the artillery officers by radio before leaving Aberdeen. Rounds were loaded, breeches slammed shut. On the HQ's order, lanyards were pulled; guns slammed back, accompanied by a radio call from each troop commander of '_Shot Out!_', and were quickly reloaded.

Four seconds later, the next round was out. And the next, four seconds after that, a rate of fire that could break armies. This was the first phase of the barrage, the initial strike.

* * *

Harry had developed a technique for surviving this very situation. The idea had come from the bubble-head charm. Using his power, he defined a volume of air around himself and the others, and then pushed out. At this close range, he could exercise control over the very molecules of air itself. Now, there was a one-inch partial vacuum between the group and the outside world. This was designed to stop the concussive effect of the artillery fire from hammering their bodies into pulp with repeated detonations, but would not stop any stray shrapnel – a calculated risk, but a necessary one.

* * *

The fireplan Cooper had called was probably one of the most complex and devastating volleys that the British Army had executed in decades. With no warning, a total of fifty-four fragmentation shells exploded in a pre-determined pattern along a seven-hundred metre stretch of forest. From about thirty metres up, the shrapnel covered roughly forty metres square on the ground; this meant only 18 shells were required to cover the full length of Voldemort's force. The rest overlapped in an interlocking grid that scoured about eighty metres back into the Forest, the ancient firs of which were no protection at all – pine needles do not stop hyper-velocity fragments of steel travelling at 5,000 feet per second.

The blast completely covered the Dark Army, obscuring them with smoke from the detonation, shredded wood, and the dust and dirt thrown up by the shrapnel and concussion.

Voldemort's forces had discovered exactly why Josef Stalin once said, "_Artillery is the God of War_."

* * *

In his contorted position behind the rock, Harry felt the thunderous explosion through the ground, as he was protected from it by his vacuum barrier. Sound (explosive concussions are essentially very overpowered sound waves) requires air molecules to bang together in order to transfer the energy. With no molecules in the vacuum, there was no transference – and so Harry's eardrums – and body – remained intact.

4th Regiment would continue to fire, but the surprise factor allowed by the MRSI technique was now lost. So they just fired, each gun adhering to the HQ's calculations to remain within the target area, but no longer trying to be fancy about it. They just walked their shells across the designated impact zone, repeatedly covering all sectors of it, ensuring nothing could be alive – until Cooper called the cease fire.

Through a high-power scope, the Major scanned the still-clearing cloud of debris. Harry's rain was reducing visibility rather sharply, and he could barely make out details any more. Still, he caught a glimpse of _something_ through the powerful x50 scope, which was stabilised on a tripod to maximise effectiveness. He saw Harry stand and peek out, and then saw that _something_ again…

_Something_ turned into _oh shit_, as he realised that the glimpse he'd seen was rapidly resolving itself into Voldemort's pale skin, standing out in the night like a neon sign in the darkness. Around him was a small circle of upright Death Eaters, no more than ten, and beyond that circle….

Bodies. Everywhere, just ranks and piles of corpses. Cooper grimaced at the absolute carnage he saw. _That's … unpleasant. _With a single fire mission he'd probably just killed at least several hundred people, possibly as many as a thousand. _Well, the supremacists won't recover from that. _The forest boundary had been completely shredded.

"Sierra One One and Sierra Two One, I have visual on enemy leadership. They survived the strike; I repeat they survived the strike. Take the shot if you have it.

"_Rodger that. Target acquired …" _A gunshot echoed down the open link. _"Negative effect; say again, negative effect, switching to alternate targets."_

"Roger, out." _I suppose it's all on you Harry._

* * *

Harry saw a shield flare into life around the enemy group before he heard the gunshot. _Bloody hell … so that's how he survived._ As he watched, the shield contracted around Voldemort's stick-thin form, and shimmered into invisibility again. _Hopefully that means he's low on juice, which would be expected after withstanding the equivalent of the hammer of God himself. But that means…_

Just as Harry completed the thought, Rudolphus Lestrange's head exploded back in a spray of blood and brains, followed by his brother Rastaban, who was thrown backwards, his chest mangled. The core Death Eaters were experienced fighters, however, and rapidly put up shields towards both the Dark and West Towers. Apparently something with a little more … punch … would be required.

Rolling out of cover, Harry waved for those around him to stay down then started down the hill, moving quickly. His eyes were back to normal, as he wanted to spring a surprise. McDiarmid stopped the others from following them.

"He doesn't need your help for this bit."

Hermione and Neville looked at him. "Screw that, whoever you are. We're backing up our friend," Neville said, and followed Harry down the hill. McDiarmid grimaced, and then shrugged at Dumbledore's raised eyebrow.

"Kids these days … come on then."

* * *

Drawing to a halt about twenty metres from the Dark Lord, Harry waited. Recognition came quickly.

"Potter."

_My name really does lend itself to other people's distain. Well, two can play at that._

Projecting his voice with his power, "Hello, Tom."

"_Don't_ call me _that_."

_Oooh, a sore spot to exploit._

"Why not? It's ironic, really. Or maybe poetic justice. Hell, maybe just karma –you've built up enough over the years, I'm sure. The all-powerful Dark Lord brought low by the very _Muggles_ you hated so very much." Harry stressed the word, just to annoy him.

"Oh yes, you are one now, aren't you?" Voldemort's sneer was back in full force, and his sycophants laughed with him. It was false bravado. He and the inner circle were inside their own anti-apparition wards by several hundred metres, which would take several minutes to take down and was too far to run. "As you can see, your weapons have no effect on me."

_Nice try, Tom. _

"No effect? I beg to differ – since you appear to be swaying on your feet, I'd say they had quite a large effect on you." Voldemort glared. "However, you don't know the full story."

"Oh? I don't have time for your prattle."

_Arrogant much?_

"Really? You're doing a fine job of playing for time, Tom, so I'll indulge you a bit longer. When I expelled you from my mind in the Ministry, I didn't just burn myself out magically. I unlocked a gift, a potential never before seen in humankind. The power to manipulate forces far greater than even Magic itself."

Harry paused, partly for dramatic effect and partly to gauge his audience's reaction. Voldemort was looking around desperately, eyes flickering, trying to find a way out without being obvious about it. Harry decided to put him out of his misery.

"You never heard the full prophecy, did you?" Voldemort zeroed in on Harry, his obsession obvious. _Might as well give him what he wants … _"It stated that I would have power you know not. Well, guess what?" Harry's eyes shifted into the infinite blackness of the void as he raised his arms to the sky dramatically, and Voldemort watched in horror at the realisation of his mistaken interpretation of the prophecy. "_Here's how you find out_."

A blinding white streak of lightning speared out of the heavens, driving Voldemort to his knees. A second followed, and another, and another, until a constant chain of electricity was arcing down to impact on Riddle's failing shields. A vortex of wind-driven rain swirled around the two of them, creating an opaque column into the sky that cut off the view of the outside world.

Outside the barrier, spells and curses flickered between the wizards. McDiarmid hung back up-slope picking his shots and whittling down the opposition. Neville fell to a 'crucio' from his parent's attacker Bellatrix, who held the spell on him, cackling. At least, until the muggle soldier's bullet blew her heart out through her spine. Neville struggled to his knees, and Hermione took a hit as she tried to cover him, high on the right shoulder. Lucius Malfoy was also hanging back – out of cowardice – and although behind a shield, he was blown sideways from a 40mm grenade the Sergeant Major landed just off to the side of it. Rookwood, McNair, Flint, Nott, the Carrows, they all went down eventually, either to a well placed bullet or to the powerful, experienced duellers that made up the core members of the Order and the school.

Inside the rain-barrier, one lightning bolt got through, and Thomas Marvolo Riddle, Dark Lord, 'You-Know-Who' and terror of tens of thousands of witches and wizards, died writhing like the worm he was in the blood- and rain-soaked mud of the school which gave him access to his powers.

A few minutes later, with all the Death Eaters dead, Dumbledore and the other defenders had gathered up-slope of the … whatever it was Harry was inside.

As they watched, Harry walked out of the maelstrom, which began to visibly dissipate behind him.

"Well, kid?"

McDiarmid was kneeling in a firing position, having clearly been covering him in case Voldemort had some trick up his sleeve. Dumbledore now truly looked his age, shoulders slumped. Flitwick had apparently magically first-aided Hermione's wounded shoulder, and was now levitating her back up the hill while Neville was being supported by Tonks. Moody was rather happier, having apparently watched the whole thing with his eye.

"It's done. He's gone."

* * *

*Think Skyrim for the dragon's sliding-crash landing.

I've gone with a Tom Clancy-esque writing style for this battle. No-one writes modern combat as well as he does, as far as I'm concerned, so I've included a lot of detail on the technical aspects. Modern warfighting is incredibly technical and interconnected, so it should be no surprise that it's pretty much impossible to describe without delving into the minutiae quite a bit.

My interpretation of JKR's universe is of a world mostly filled with fickle, incredibly gullible and bigoted people who must be incredibly stupid (with a few exceptions, of course – there are always exceptions – *cough*Hermione*cough*,) and therefore incredibly lucky not to have died out of inbreeding several centuries ago.

If you can't already tell, Hermione's something of a favourite character of mine (I tried to write in her death – honest! – and I just couldn't do it). She will probably crop up again during the Stargate Atlantis plotlines, simply because I like her.

**TRIVIA! Or the Glossary, if you want to be technical...**

The AS-90 is a tracked, lightly armoured self-propelled artillery piece, mounting a 155mm heavy howitzer. It has been in service since 1993, and has a range of 25 kilometres and weighs 45 tons. It is capable of accurate, sustained, computer-controlled fire that coordinates the ballistic trajectories of all the linked-in vehicles so that all the shells arrive at once. And using the newer Copperhead laser-guided rounds, it will pretty much never miss.


	5. 4 - Brave New Worlds - and Galaxies

Disclaimer: I don't own anything, obviously. Otherwise there'd be a sizeable amount of money in my account … nope, nothing yet. Various pieces of dialogue belong to MGM, etc.

Credit: Again, thank you to 'phoenix catcher' for permission to borrow, I highly recommend his story 'Cast between Worlds' if you haven't already found it. Also, thank you to all those that favourited, followed or reviewed so far. So, moving on smartly, here's a massive change…

We're going to Atlantis! – Since I know this is what everyone wants. From now on, we will find out what's happened to Harry over the past six years or so through flashbacks and conversations, details emerging through his relations with other characters. Surface similarities to 'Cast Between Worlds' may be apparent – that story is heavily based, at least initially, in the script of the show itself, and so is 'Per Ardua ad Astra'. It might also be because I think certain scenes are awesome and deserve resurrection – or because there really is no better way to handle the changes in the story brought about by having an extra character.

Italics in the story text are someone's thoughts except when someone is speaking, in which case they are stressing the words for emphasis.

* * *

**Chapter 4 - Brave New Worlds ... and Galaxies**

"_Although no one can go back and make a brand new start, anyone can start from now and make a brand new ending."_

_Carl Bard_

* * *

**July 16th, 2004 - NORAD (Backup) Command Bunker aka StarGate Command, Cheyenne Mountain Air Force Station, Colorado Springs.**

The USAF staff car drove straight into the tunnel and up to the guard point at the elevator access to what the public believed was NORAD headquarters. The person who got out was decidedly unusual, even for Stargate Command's veteran guards, who could honestly say they had seen far more weird crap than most.

The officer was six foot, dressed in cutting-edge tan-green battledress, with a sky blue rank slide on his chest bearing two thicker dark blue bars at the bottom. Velcro-attached patches adorned his arms: a subdued Union Jack in olive green above a square blue-white-red recognition patch on his left; and a blood type/allergies badge below an unusual shield-shaped white lightning bolt on a black background emblem, with the words '_AFO STORM_' written below on his right. A beige-coloured beret with a winged dagger badge partially covered an odd-shaped scar on his forehead ... a scar which extended down over his right eye in a thin red stripe, continuing below it for another two inches – the eye was clearly still functional, judging by how his cold, alert gaze took everything in. Another scar marked his left cheekbone horizontally below the eye.

Having satisfied himself that no threats lurked in the brightly lit tunnel, the soldier turned to the trunk of the car, from where he pulled a long black rifle bag, a camo rucksack and a set of MOLLE body armour. With all this slung over his shoulders, and carrying the armour, he turned to the elevator.

As this curious and rather intimidating figure approached the guard station, accompanied by the Lieutenant who'd driven the car, the security officer reached for the clipboard that held the approved visitor list for this shift.

"Name and ID, please sir."

"Flight Lieutenant Harry Potter. Royal Air Force." He opened out an ID wallet with his right hand.

The guard contained his curiosity and checked the list, then the photo. "Yes sir, you're clear. Full iris scan and palm-print check are inside."

Once the visitor was past, one of guards looked at the one with the clipboard, a sergeant.

"Scary looking dude, that one."

The sergeant snorted. "Ya don't say...what was the first clue? Huge scars on his face, an SAS beret, and toting a bag of guns. Regular Sherlock Holmes, you are. Get back to your patrol, greenhorn."

* * *

In the conference room of Stargate Command with his gear beside him, Harry stood at the picture window, looking out at the organised chaos of the Atlantis Expedition's preparations. A couple of people were fiddling around with some UGV with a long pincer arm, and others were wrapping towering trolleys of supplies with plastic to keep things secure. The Gate itself was still, but Harry knew he'd get to see it in action for the first time soon.

Off to his left, the door to the General's door opened, and Brigadier O'Neill strode out, accompanied by a Dr Weir. The grey haired general was clearly stressed out but bearing it in good humour – he was coordinating the dispatching of an expedition to another galaxy after all, stress was to be expected.

"Flight Lieutenant, welcome to Stargate Command. First time?"

"Yes, Sir. Doctor." Harry acknowledged Dr Weir with a nod. "I've been briefed about the SGC for about a year; I was slated to be on one of the first British SG teams, but other...things ... came up. I've never actually been here. Or seen the Stargate before."

"It's a rush, believe me." The General grinned, his enthusiasm evident. "I wouldn't have come out of retirement and stayed for seven years and counting if it wasn't."

"I can believe it, sir. The British government has no objection to my deployment on this expedition. After years of hunting Taliban in the mountains it will make a change."

"That it will." Weir glanced at O'Neill. "Not to be rude, General, but why is the Flight Lieutenant special, exactly? I haven't been able to access his full file – the redacted parts were, well ... all of it, actually."

"I'm here because I'm a weapon, Doctor. A force multiplier, so to speak. And because I'm apparently not entirely human according to my DNA."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"Remember why you wanted Major Sheppard on the team? Because his ATA strength was above average?" Weir nodded and the General continued, "Flight Lieutenant Potter's ATA strength is several times stronger than Sheppard, the strongest natural carrier we've found in the NATO DNA database. We haven't been able to get him on the Antarctic chair to test it, but he won't have a problem with Ancient technology."

Weir blinked. "That'd make you extremely helpful. But having the ATA gene doesn't make you 'not human'. And what do you mean by 'you're a weapon'?"

"They're both the same answer, Doctor." Harry replied, "Since I can control the atmosphere, create storms, bring down lightning and control tornadoes. Although my ATA strength isn't a certain explanation for that, it's a pretty good one. I'll explain more fully later."

"You're kidding me," Weir smirked disbelievingly, thinking O'Neill was pranking her – something he'd already tried several times ... but, "...wait, you're serious?" She looked the General, who was clearly not joking, then at Harry, clearly sceptical. "The weather?"

"No Doctor, I seem to have developed this amusing habit of coming into classified military bases and spouting crap in front of the commanding officer. Of course I'm serious." Harry's tone was absolutely dry, his expression completely deadpan. "Although for the first part, I understand Senator Kinsey fulfilled the role admirably – at least until his ... _unfortunate_ departure from public office recently."

O'Neill chuckled. "That he did. Glad to see the British are taking an interest." Weir laughed as well, having had to deal with the corrupt jackass in her time as head of the SGC a few months before. _Good, that broke the ice._

"The defence of Earth interests us all, sir. As too do the actions of those who try to hinder it. That's pretty much a direct quote from Downing Street, by the way. The PM told me about this mission personally a few days ago, a courtesy I appreciated."

Weir was apparently still curious, though. "What about the rest of your file?"

"I'm an RAF officer, but I've been on attachment to the SAS for just over four years. I'm also one of the highest rated jet and helicopter pilots in the British Armed Forces, although I spend far less time flying than I'd like. I'm an experienced, decorated Special Forces officer, and I've spent pretty much my entire career continuously on deployment."

"General?" Weir wanted O'Neill's opinion. The old soldier was irreverent and often downright juvenile, but Elizabeth knew he was an experienced judge of character, and knew how to read other soldiers well.

"Take him. You won't regret it."

"Okay ... I'm sold. Although you'd better give me a straight answer on the weather thing ASAP." Weir nodded decisively._ A good leader, can think on her feet – a good start. _"Glad to have you aboard, Flight Lieutenant Potter. Should be journey of a lifetime."

"Yes Ma'am." Weir nodded again and left.

O'Neill wasn't finished. "The military commander of the expedition, Colonel Sumner, isn't happy I added you to the list. He hand-picked everybody else except Sheppard, who Doctor Weir wanted, and ... he's a jar-head."

"Stubborn, sir?"

"Aren't they all? In a good way ... most of the time."

"He'll get over it." Harry shrugged. "His problem, not mine. I don't have to prove myself any more. I'll just kill whatever they tell me too."

"Do that. Weir has overriding authority, though. Don't let the Marines ride roughshod over her before _she_ can prove herself."

"Yes sir."

"Finally, we're giving you a brevet rank in the United States Air Force. You're a Flight Lieutenant, so that makes you a Captain in our structure." O'Neill handed over a small plastic bag containing a variety of rank insignia, either metal bars or embroidered badges. "This is primarily for the benefit of the Marines, to give you a place in the chain of command. The civvies mostly wouldn't know a Flight Lieutenant from a Field Marshall, so they probably won't even notice. I've cleared it with the RAF; you're to be addressed as Captain now. On our side, it actually required an executive order to override our regulations about non-citizens, but that's been taken care of. Any questions?" (1)

"Not at this time, General." _The standard response. _

"Good. Dismissed, Captain." O'Neill smirked. "Bet that's going to sound odd for a while."

"Adapt and overcome, sir, like always."

* * *

Five hours later, Harry was standing in a corner of the Gate Room, unnoticed by most despite his unusual uniform. He'd finished giving Weir a more detailed brief on his abilities and training, but hadn't given her any personal information at all, despite her prying.

He'd boxed up his minimal personal possessions; just clothes mostly, with some extra equipment and a very few personal items, for transport in the cargo pallets. He'd spent almost the entire last four years on the move, going from place to place stamping out fires for the British government, and occasionally starting new ones. He didn't have much in the way of a personal life outside the Forces, and his room in the Officer's Mess at Hereford had been spartan in the extreme – not surprising considering how little time he spent there. The one thing he did spend prodigious amounts of his own money on was his personal equipment – also not surprising, considering how much he used it.

The camouflage uniform wasn't standard – given how little time he spent around the 'proper' military, no-one ever dared call him on it. Neither was the rest of his gear - he'd started customising it soon after he started going on independent one-man operations, which rapidly became the norm after 9/11. He carried an M-14 'Enhanced Battle Rifle,' (EBR) – a lightweight sniper rifle with serious stopping power. An SGC standard P-90 was clipped to the side of his rucksack – he'd wanted something with more firepower, but they didn't have room for alternate calibres of ammunition, so he was stuck with the futuristic-looking SMG. Another custom weapon, a SOPMOD Colt .45 1911 silenced pistol was riding in a thigh holster above ballistic kevlar kneepads.

Protecting his body was a set of high-grade SOV-3000 'Dragon Skin' body armour - a name that had given him a laugh, when he'd first heard it - also in camouflage with attached pouches for spare magazines, grenades and various other items; the full 'collar' and arm 'wings' were also attached, which bulked him out considerably compared to the Marines who seemed to make up the military contingent. He'd learned the _extremely_ hard way that body armour was only inconvenient _until_ you realised you needed it, by which point it was too late; so now he always wore the full set if it was practical. A helmet was also clipped to the other side from the P-90; he wore his SAS beret since he hated the damn helmet. He'd been through Hell for that coveted sand beret – with a capital H, just to be clear – and was proud to wear it. He'd added the fabric 'H' insignia tabs of his new rank to the outer collar of the armour – the metal ones were on the shirt collar underneath.

Harry noticed Major Sheppard come in, and studiously ignore Colonel Sumner's hostile looks. _Nothing gets that man down, not even being shot down in the badlands of Afghanistan. _He was about to step forward and re-introduce himself – they'd mutually saved each other's lives in 'The Rockpile' two years before, but Dr Weir interrupted from the metal ramp leading up to the Gate.

"All right, here we go. We are about to try to make a connection. We have been unable to predict exactly how much power this is going to take and we may only get the one chance at this, so if we are able to achieve a stable wormhole, we're not going to risk shutting the gate down. We'll send through the MALP probe, check for viability and go – everything in one shot. Every one of you volunteered for this mission ..."

_Sorta. More like I _got_ volunteered. Not that I mind, actually – anywhere'd be better than the Rockpile right now. _

Weir seemed to hear his thoughts, and looked over at him as she continued. "You represent over a dozen countries. You are the world's best and brightest. And in light of the adventure we are about to embark on, you are also the bravest..."

_Really? I suppose. The Scottish guy looks terrified, but he's going anyway; and that's the true definition of courage. _

"...as all of you know, we may never be able to return home. I'd like to offer you all one last chance to withdraw your participation."

_Not like I've really got anything to hold me here. Uh-oh, Sumner and Sheppard aren't going to be getting along, judging by that glare. If looks could kill ... _

Weir looked pleased no-one backed down, "Begin the dialling sequence." She stepped down, and Harry stepped forward. Time for his surprise entrance.

"Afternoon, Major."

Sheppard did a double-take. "Storm? What the hell are you doing here?"

Harry just looked at him. "Right, right, stupid question. So do I get your real name now, or is that classified still?"

Harry grimaced. "I'd forgotten about that. Flight Lieutenant – pardon me, now Captain Harry Potter, Royal Air Force, on detached duty with the SAS." Harry pointed at the sand-colour beret, a distinctive marker of his unit.

Sheppard's reply was interrupted by Colonel Sumner, who seemed to want to lay down the law but spoke quietly, not wanting to make a scene.

"Let me make myself clear, gentlemen – neither of you are here by my choice."

"Well, sir, I'm sure you'll warm up to me once you get to know me." Sheppard clearly couldn't care less. Harry stayed silent, preferring to avoid riling the touchy colonel if at all possible.

"As long as you remember who's giving the orders." Sumner moved away.

Sheppard's wry, "That would be Doctor Weir, right?" tested Harry's ability to maintain a straight face to the maximum. _With Sheppard idea of a sense of humour, this is going to be ... interesting. As for the Colonel, this expedition is going to another galaxy for Christ's sake; sending a relentlessly by-the-book officer to command the military contingent is a stupid idea. Sumner doesn't seem like he can even see the edge of the box, let alone think outside of his neat little regulation world. And speaking of rule-followers ... _

Harry nodded at Sheppard, and then slipped out through the left hand door, moving up to the Control Room beside Dr Jackson. He looked out of place in full body armour amongst the technicians, but he'd learned several times the hard way that armour was something you wore pretty much all the time, lest you be caught out.

"Dr Jackson. I understand you're the ancient languages expert?"

"Yes. And you are?"

"Flight Lieu – sorry," Harry smirked at O'Neill, standing next to them. "Captain Potter, RAF. I was told to drop this off with you as I left." Harry handed him an envelope. "It's a request from the British government for you to evaluate one of our academics prior to approval for recruitment to the SGC. She's already passed our security checks, but we understand if you," Harry nodded to O'Neill, clearly eavesdropping, "want to run your own."

Jackson took the envelope, and then looked at O'Neill. The General just asked, "Isn't this a little unusual? I mean, the IOA usually coordinates the international representatives."

"Yes, that's true. However, my government doesn't want her here as an observer, but as a full team member like Dr Jackson here. She's field capable, or will be with a little training. She's fluent in several runic and ancient languages, and is presently finishing her doctorate at Cambridge. I'll personally vouch for her – she's an old friend, from _my school._" Harry looked meaningfully at O'Neill, who he knew was briefed in on magic, and had read Harry's unredacted file. "I can guarantee she will be an _extremely_ productive member of the SGC."

"Ah." O'Neill had clearly got his meaning. "Do it, Daniel. It'll stop you from whining about not going to Atlantis."

"I wasn't whining, Jack, I just think that..." Harry left them to it, flipping a casual salute at O'Neill as he left. He moved back to the Major's as the gate activated, prompting a round of applause.

"Wow." Sheppard sounded amazed, but eyed the vertical puddle of _something_ very water-like sceptically. "Impressive."

"That's all?"

"Well...does it hurt?"

"How would I know?"

Sheppard looked at him. "I assumed you'd done this before."

"Nope. Stargate virgin here."

Sheppard and the Scottish doctor behind them laughed. "Same here." His accent was like McGonagall's, Harry thought. Fortunately, that part of his life no longer hurt to think about. "Doctor Carson Beckett."

"I'm Sheppard, he's ... what was it again? Potter?"

"That's right." Harry started paying attention and put his earpiece in as Sumner started barking out orders.

"Hold on, Colonel." Weir interrupted, putting on her rucksack. "We go through together."

_Good for you, Doc._

Harry and Sheppard moved up to the gate after they went though, along with a young black marine with a First Lieutenant's silver bars. Behind them, General O'Neill announced on the speakers, "Expedition team. Move out."

"What's it feel like?" Sheppard asked. _Ha, he really is worried about that, isn't he?_

The young marine considered the question. "Hurts like hell, sir," he replied with a very serious expression, before grinning broadly and throwing himself backward through the wormhole, rather enthusiastically shouting, "_Wa-hoo!"_

Harry just shrugged at the Major, who was still apprehensive. "Well, you did ask." Then he himself stepped into the upright puddle and into the _freaky green roller-coaster tube to another galaxy._ Of course, being demolecularised, Harry didn't actually _think_ that until he stepped out the other side.

* * *

**City of Atlantis, Pegasus Galaxy**

There, they emerged into a large, high and dark room, lit only by the flickering blue effect of the Stargate playing over the angular metal walls. Immediately opposite was a set of stairs, leading up to a mezzanine level, and depressions to either side in the red-coloured floor. Marines were spreading out in small groups, clearing the area. Behind them, that odd squelching noise heralded the arrival of more expedition members through the Gate, dragging supplies with them.

Lights started to turn on as Sheppard and Harry moved up the stairs, weapons at the ready.

"Who's doing that?" Weir asked behind them. _Good bloody question._

"Security teams, any alien contact?" _Unlikely; this place is dead. I mean, look at the thousands-of-years-old dead plants. No way are those supposed to be artistic, no matter how alien this place is. _

Sheppard went right at the top of the stairs, into a room filled with tables, covered by dust sheets. A scientist – _McKay, I think_ – followed him, lifting up some of the sheets.

Weir's, "Greetings from the Pegasus galaxy; you may cut power to the gate," message back to the SGC was met with silence, but a single bottle rolled out of the Gate along the floor before it shut off. Harry nearly laughed. _Champagne? O'Neill's a bit of a joker, it seems, even if it is appropriate._ _Damn, wish I'd had a CO like him in Afghan._

* * *

Atlantis heralded more and more incredible discoveries in the next few minutes, as exploration teams pushed out through the alien city. Excited calls on the radio came thick and fast.

"_Dr Weir, you have to see this."_

"I have a lot of things I have to see – just be careful." Weir ditched her rucksack and turned to Harry, who'd cleared the small space in front of her. "Amazed yet?"

"Just a minute." Harry took a quick glance around, making sure no one was looking, and then reached out with his ability, eyes shifting to black. Weir blinked, took a step back. In the low light she wasn't quite sure her eyes weren't playing tricks, but she could have sworn that...

"Uh...Captain...Harry?"

"I did say this is what happened when I did my thing." Harry was sending out feelers in the air, establishing a connection to the molecules themselves in the immediate area. This was mostly what he used his powers for – producing major storms took time, and attracted attention. The lower-level abilities his power allowed tended to be both more useful and much more subtle. He mapped out the control and gate room, then the corridors...then pushed out.

_FUCK!_

Harry stumbled, leaning against a pillar for support, as an immense feeling of _weight_ crashed in on him. _That's not air, that's water...water under a lot of pressure._

"Are you okay?"

"Yes, ma'am, I'm fine. But...we're under water, I'm certain of it. Took me by surprise, that's all."

"Are you sure?"

Harry glared at her irritatedly. "Yes ma'am, otherwise I wouldn't have said so. Now if we're done with me, the city's under several hundred metres of ocean. At least."

"Okay. Since we aren't flooding, that doesn't seem to be an immediate problem." Weir moved back across the bridge to the control room, where Sheppard and McKay were poking at things. A screen lit up as the Major passed by.

"Wasn't me!"

"Relax, Major." Weir assured him, clearly entranced by the alien city and its wonders. "It's like the entire complex is sensing our presence and coming to life."

"This has got to be the control room. This is obviously their version of a DHD." McKay butted in.

"Oh, obviously." _And … Sheppard doesn't have a clue what it is, does he. _McKay continued to flit around the other consoles.

"He means dial-home-device." Harry whispered to Sheppard, "The SGC nickname for the Stargate's control panel."

"Thanks...how do you know that?"

Harry smirked. "Got read in on Stargates about a year ago, caught up with the occasional status update on the defence of the planet whenever I was in the office."

"Office? You're not the office type."

"On that we entirely agree, sir."

Weir's radio crackled "_Dr Weir, Colonel Sumner, can you come down and meet me please, we're three levels down from you."_

* * *

Once they found the Colonel, who didn't seem pleased his two least favourite people had accompanied Dr Weir down, he led them to a large window, revealing that Atlantis was, in fact, the city of legend. Far overhead, the rippled surface of the ocean glittered, while the city itself stretched off into the hazy depths, possibly for several miles. Weir glanced at Harry for a moment, at the confirmation of his information. _Hope she's impressed. Lot more where that came from._

"...fortunately, there's some kind of force field holding back...the water..." McKay trailed off as he reached the window. "Oh, that is impressive isn't it?" _No shit, Sherlock._ "Dr Beckett has found something you should see."

The others trailed after the Canadian. Harry chose to stay at the window, continuing to focus his abilities outwards. He mentally mapped the city in just a few seconds, beginning with the tower but then room by room, corridor by corridor of the rest of the ... _that's odd. That whole pier I'm looking at out there...oh, it's flooded. Crap._ _Not good._ He followed the others, wondering how he could break the news without compromising his secret.

It came to him he caught up to the others, just about to enter the room Beckett was in. "McKay."

"Yes, what?"

_Snappish much, doctor?_

"Did you check the city shield's integrity?"

"Uh...not yet."

Harry switched to his radio, "Anyone in the control room, this is Captain Potter."

"_Grodin here."_

"Please check the integrity of the shields holding back the water for me."

"_Sure thing, just a moment."_

Inside the room, the hologram continued to speak, recounting the defeat of the Ancients of Atlantis at the hands of a terrible enemy, and how they fled to Earth.

"...This city was left to slumber, in the hope that our kind would one day return."

Harry, still outside but listening, caught sight of Dr Grodin making his way down the passage towards them.

"Well, Doctor?"

"Not good. They're collapsing, and the hologram is a major power drain."

Harry stepped aside, letting the Brit step inside to whisper to McKay, who in turn promptly interrupted Beckett's next run through the recording.

"Stop. Turn it off. Power levels throughout the city are dropping like a stone." McKay cut in.

"What does that mean?" Sumner kept his cool, Harry was glad to see.

"That if we don't stop everything we are doing right now, we are dead."

_Melodramatic much?_

* * *

Rodney's briefing on the power was also suitably dramatic.

""The force field holding back the ocean has collapsed to its minimum sustainable levels." He pointed to the screen, where sections of the city piers were highlighted already, the flooding Harry had sensed. "Look, you can see here and here, where the shields have already failed and the city flooded." _Glad I don't have to explain how I knew that._ "It could've happened years ago. This section is likely more protected because of the Stargate."

"What if it fails completely?" Sheppard asked.

"It's a matter of when, not if."

"Colonel Sumner, you need to order your search teams to stop exploring the city immediately." Weir cut in.

Sumner tapped his earpiece."All security teams, fall back to the gate room immediately."

"It's not going to be good enough." McKay was adamant.

_Get to the point. _Harry asked him straight out, "How much time do we have?"

"It's hard to say, maybe hours, maybe days if we minimize power expenditure." McKay told him.

"What about our own power generators?" Beckett asked.

"We're working on that, but even with our most advanced naquadah power generators, the equations are coming up far short."

"So we need to find more ZPMs." Weir deduced with a sigh.

"That seems unlikely we'd manage that in time, given that the SGC has only ever recovered a few, only one with any juice left," Harry commented.

"How do we do that if we can't search the city?" Sumner asked.

"If there were more here, we'd be able to detect them." McKay told the Colonel rather aggressively.

_Solutions, not more problems McKay,_ Harry was about to say, but then the Gate caught his eye from where he was standing at the railing over the Gate Room.

"How much power does the Stargate use?" Harry asked.

"There is nowhere near enough left to open a wormhole back to Earth." McKay countered.

"Maybe somewhere in this Galaxy?" Sheppard asked, catching on.

"That's relatively easy." McKay muttered, apparently mildly annoyed he hadn't thought of that, moving to the DHD console. "Fortunately, some Ancient technology still uses good old-fashioned push buttons, so we've been able to access the Stargate control system and a library of known gate addresses in the database." _A solution, then. _

"That's not all, look at this." Grodin was studying the console, and pushed a button. Out in the gate room a blue-white shield came to life over the Stargate.

"Just like the Iris on the Earth Gate." Sumner's expression didn't change, but he was clearly pleased at the defensive capability.

"Using power…using power…using power…" McKay muttered over and over and Grodin turned it off again with a contrite expression.

"Well, at least we don't have to deal with any uninvited guests. Colonel, assemble a team. We need safe harbour, or better still, another power source." Weir ordered with a look at the colonel.

"Lieutenant Ford, gather security teams one and two." Sumner left, still talking on the radio.

"Major, Captain. Go with them."

"Yes ma'am." Harry didn't reply, just nodded and left. He was already beside the active Stargate by the time Grodin and the Marines arrived, since he still wearing his combat gear.

"Colonel." Sumner looked him up and down. His expression clearly conveyed displeasure, though he said nothing.

_Oh for god's sake, might as well deal with this now._

Harry raised an eyebrow at the man. "I'm on this expedition because I'm SAS, a trained jet and helo pilot, and because my ATA strength is off the chart. I am not here to screw you over, sir. I'm here because I'm good at killing people and breaking things, and have been doing so for pretty much continuously for four years. That is all, sir."

_Well, there are a few other ... minor things ... relatively speaking ..._

Sumner seemed relatively satisfied with Harry's blunt statement, despite the near-insubordinate tone. _At least, he looks a little less like he has a ramrod up his arse, anyway. _Grodin interrupted any reply, though.

"MALP reads full viability, and no immediate signs of activity around the Stargate. But it's pitch black." Sheppard arrived as Harry pulled his NVGs out of a pouch, and Sumner instantly tightened up again, looking up at Weir almost suspiciously. _Oh get over yourself. _"For now, we're going to use the tried and true system of identifying inbound gate travellers." He handed out identity transmitters as the squad advanced through the Stargate.

* * *

The planet they reached was indeed dark, as Grodin had said. The landscape – flat grassland with clumps of trees - was lit up in a ghostly green glow through the NVG's, illuminating the Marines spreading out into a patrol line.

Not a minute later, advancing across the open ground, a rustling sound distracted Sheppard and Ford, who went to investigate. Harry, to the left of them in the patrol signalled at the rest to stop.

The sound was quickly discovered to be a couple of kids, now terrified at the looming shadowy silhouettes of the two soldiers. Another person appeared, a long-haired, bearded man at least a head taller than Harry, yelling, "Please, they're just playing!"

"Everything okay here, Sheppard?" Clearly the colonel expected otherwise, just because it was the Major.

"Yes sir; just a couple of kids."

The man, _probably a father_, pointed to himself after gathering his sons in. "Halling."

Sheppard looked confused. "I don't know what that means." _Oh, it's not _that_ hard._

"It's his _name_." Again, the colonel wasn't impressed. _And probably never will be with Sheppard. Poor guy's going to have a rough time with the CO riding him the whole time._

"Oh. Halling, it's nice to meet you." Sheppard recovered quickly.

"Are you here to trade?"

"Trade… yes. We're…traders…" Sheppard fumbled it again. _Riiiight, very well armed traders, moving in formation, in the middle of the night. Because of the bandits in these parts, obviously._

Halling apparently accepted the explanation, speaking to his kids, telling them off for being out after dark. Then he stood.

"Teyla will wish to meet you. Come."

* * *

As Halling led them to this Teyla, Harry took up the rear, as two men had been left to guard the gate. This meant he wasn't privy to a conversation between Ford and Sumner that probably would have made him chuckle.

"If you don't mind me asking, sir, I've noticed you have a bit of a problem with Major Sheppard, and the British guy?"

"With Sheppard, my problem is with his record, Lieutenant. I don't like anybody who doesn't follow the proper chain of command."

"Yes, sir. And the Limey ... I mean, Captain Potter?"

"Well, he doesn't really fit in the chain of command _at all_, so I don't know yet. His file's damn near completely redacted – even his school record, for some reason – so either he really is extremely good, or he's embarrassed or pissed off someone important so much he's been packed off to a different galaxy to get rid of him." The Colonel paused to consider what he'd seen of Potter so far, which wasn't all that much.

Ford snorted. "What, McMurdo was too close?"

"Well, it's probably option number one, considering he's still in the military at all," Sumner decided, "but I don't know him, and I didn't choose him, and that means I don't have a clue how he'll react under fire. He's an unknown quantity ... but he's SAS, so I'll reserve judgement for the time being. Those scars are impressive, but don't mean squat until we know the stories behind them; and those may indicate a screw-up on his part. Also, he may wear an SAS badge, but he's Royal Air Force – that in itself is unusual, if not damn near unique."

"How unique, sir?"

"I haven't met or heard of a single RAF officer who went into the SAS. Although it is possible, if you want to be Special Forces in Britain, the usual route is to join the Royal Marines or the Army and then go into the SBS or SAS respectively. The RAF does have an infantry regiment, but they're hardly 'Special'; just there for base protection, and they're something of a joke to other two services. His personnel file has nothing to indicate why he's different – even his age is redacted. It's like he doesn't even exist, even to the SGC, which is the most secret project in the world."

The village turned out to be just a few hundred metres away in a large clearing, a collection of high, round tents glowing from firelight inside. _They kind of look...Mongolian, actually. _Harry thought. _Yurts, they're called out there._ He'd spent a month out there in 2000, observing a Russian bio-chem research installation just the other side of the border, moving around on horseback in local dress with a friendly interpreter. It had been ... peaceful, actually, kind of the calm before the storm when the War on Terror kicked off later that year.

Outside a slightly larger tent, Halling announced "It is Halling; I bring men from away."

* * *

Inside, Teyla had just sat down to an early breakfast with her people – with no relatives of her own, and as the leader of her tribe, she considered every one of them to be part of her family. At Halling's announcement she smiled: she had travelled off-world frequently to trade, and always enjoyed meeting new people and cultures.

_They're probably new. Halling would have announced them by name or tribe if he knew them._

"Enter."

Four men entered behind Halling, and she categorised them instantly as they ducked through the flap: a tallish man with a carefully neutral expression, carrying some kind of weapon – _leader,_ she assessed him instantly; two younger men in the same, all-black attire with friendlier looks – _seconds__; _and a fourth man in different clothing, brown covered with many interlocking swatches of other colours, greens and blacks mostly, with a brown cloth cap with some sort of marking. He also carried a weapon, longer and deadlier looking, but it was his green eyes that caught Teyla's attention, and the way he moved. _Like a hunter, always balanced. And the eyes...a warrior, most certainly. A deadly one – who has seen more violence than any of the others, and done it as well._ The warrior looked around, taking in everything, and everyone, in a second.

Halling caught her attention. "They wish to trade." His voice clearly conveyed his disbelief.

She was watching the warrior, who just smiled almost imperceptibly, as if he'd heard something funny nobody else would get. _Interesting..._

The third one in black, taller, with dark hair removed whatever it was that he had on his forehead.

"It's nice to meet you." He was smiling widely, genuinely it seemed. _Good sign, probably._

"I am Teyla Emmagan, daughter of Tagan."

"Colonel Marshall Sumner," the older one announced. "Major Sheppard, Lieutenant Ford, and Captain Potter."

_So, the Warrior is named. Hello, Captain Potter._

"We have very few specific needs, but –"

"- we do not trade with strangers." Teyla interrupted Sumner. But she was watching the Captain, who met her gaze. He still seemed amused at something, even if he didn't show it obviously.

"Is that a fact?" The slightly aggressive, ominous tone set by the colonel's words was broken by Sheppard's cheerful, "Well, we'll just have to get to know each other then...me? I like Ferris wheels, college football and anything that goes more than two hundred miles per hour."

_I have no idea what he just said. _

Clearly sensing this, the captain rolled his eyes and spoke, openly amused at his comrade's antics even as the younger one, Ford, muttered something akin to her thoughts in Sheppard's ear.

"Teyla, daughter of Tagan. I am Harry, son of James and Lily. Although Major Sheppard probably doesn't make much sense to you right now, he is correct. Just because we are strangers tonight does not mean we will not be friends tomorrow." The Warrior's voice was low, formal. He didn't quite bow, but he gave a deep nod, as if addressing a valued friend or associate.

_Odd how I'm already thinking of him as 'The Warrior' as if it were a title ..._

Teyla appreciated the slight formality. The Colonel was apparently already annoyed by her initial refusal, so Captain Potter would probably be easier to deal with, and would be more respectful of her people's culture.

_How to make overtures of friendship..._

"Each morning, before dawn, our people drink a stout tea; to brace us for the coming day. Will you join us?"

"We would be honoured."

_Good answer, Warrior._

* * *

Harry had been mildly surprised to find that 'Teyla' was in fact a woman. It wasn't an Earth first name, so he'd assumed it was more of a surname-by-occupation – like 'Tailor'. However, the instant he ducked into the tent, it was blindingly clear he'd been wrong. Even if Halling hadn't introduced her immediately, the petite brunette woman dressed in a complex green-and-brown leather overcoat had a presence about her; similar actually to a number of soldiers he'd encountered, true natural leaders who could just walk into a situation and take command without really even thinking about it.

_That's what you get for assuming Earth culture applies everywhere. Not everyone's culture is patriarchal – and I've clearly spent too long in the Middle East if I just assumed that._

She seemed particularly interested in him; Harry put it down to his abnormal appearance compared to the other's standard all-black. His camouflage and weaponry was effective, but unfortunately rather distinctive – he had actually earned a nickname amongst the Pashtun tribesmen of Afghanistan, despite the secrecy of his missions. They called him 'Storm-Bringer,' and rumours persisted amongst the Taliban rank and file of a lone 'foreign devil' who showed up in the middle of massive thunderstorms, 'like some prophet of Allah himself' as one captured insurgent had put it. Although initially MI6 assumed his cover was blown – 'Storm-Bringer' was awfully similar to his SAS unit nickname of 'Storm', after all – it quickly became clear it was simply coincidence, which in turn had been good for a laugh with the lads in D Squadron when he got back to England for a few weeks later that year.

Halling's clear suspicion of their cover as 'traders' was good for a slight chuckle as well. _Clearly he didn't buy it. Misjudged that one too._

Sheppard's attempt at a friendly overture was amusing, and might actually have worked, if only by making them curious. However, with several years experience of dealing with touchy Afghan tribal and village elders, Harry decided that diplomacy might be served by a little 'hearts and minds'.

_Daughter of Tagan...I'm not going to assume again that Tagan is a male or female parent's name, so I'll use both._ He didn't think of his parents often any more. At Hogwarts, there'd been so many comments about _'you look like James – but with Lily's eyes'_ that they had always been returned to the front of his mind eventually. But an intense eighteen months of military training, followed by an exhaustive four years of near-constant missions had forced him to learn to compartmentalise, or lose crucial focus during operations. Operating alone so much, he couldn't afford the slightest mistake, so all personal feelings got shoved to the back of his mind and bottled up.

_Well, being formal seemed to work. Let's see where this goes. Doesn't look like they can give us a ZPM, but they might help with shelter for the expedition._

* * *

A few hours later after sunrise, the goodwill Harry's careful diplomacy and Sheppard's more exuberant enthusiasm had engendered in Teyla and her people was being somewhat tested.

"The City of the Ancestors is not safe." One of the Athosians, a younger man named Toran was protesting the Colonel's plan to investigate some nearby ruins, revealed by the daylight.

"We can handle ourselves." Sumner was unimpressed, but Toran adamantly pressed on.

"The Wraith will come."

"Who are these Wraith?"

Teyla and Toran looked at each other in confusion. Harry and Sheppard had avoided the topic during their conversation, keeping it on happier topics rather than enigmatic potential enemies. "We have never met anyone who did not know."

"Well, you have now."

"If the Wraith have never touched your world you should go back there."

"That...isn't an option, regrettably." Harry spoke up. "We're stranded."

Sheppard nodded. "Bit of a bind. We may need a place to stay for a while."

"Our people have long believed that the Wraith will come if we venture into the old city. But," Teyla temporised, "It is a belief we have not tested for some time."

"And what do you believe, Teyla?" _Might be interesting._

Teyla hesitated. "I have visited other worlds; seen other peoples more advanced than us. The Wraith are not a myth, certainly, but neither are they gods. I do not believe they _will_ return for certain if we enter the Old City, but neither am I willing to test it. There has been no benefit in tempting fate."

Sumner just walked out, grunting "Gentlemen." _How polite, he may as well have slapped her._

Ford and Sheppard followed. Teyla looked at Harry as he picked up his rifle; she was clearly irritated, her jaw tense. "Your leader looks through me as if I were not there." _See? Just plain rude. However, when faced with a question you don't want to answer, ask one of your own._

"Do I?" Harry paused in slinging his weapon, looking her straight in the eye. _Sincerity goes a long way._ Teyla had a speculative look as she considered the question.

"No. But...you see everything, don't you?"

Harry smiled slightly. "I try. Being unobservant gets you killed in my line of work."

"Which is what, exactly?" _Oh crap, walked into that one._ "I noticed you didn't directly answer that earlier..." she added, watching him carefully._ Yeah, because I can't exactly say 'assassin,' can I..._

"I'm a soldier. A ... protector of those who cannot protect themselves, I suppose. Excuse me."

Harry ducked out of the tent to find the other officers waiting by the lakeside. "What took so long?"

"Soothing some ruffled feathers, sir; a little hearts and minds will go a long way, _Colonel_, especially if we end up asking them to help us set up here." Harry stressed the rank slightly while looking him in the eye, subtly indicating Sumner was at fault here without calling him out on it in front of the others. The Marine thought about it, then just nodded nearly imperceptibly. Ford and Sheppard had apparently missed the exchange entirely.

"Well, that city's worth a look regardless. Not to mention the possibility that there are ZPM's there they don't know or care about." Still, the Colonel wasn't going to listen to Teyla. _Stubborn, like O'Neill said, even if he can admit he's wrong._

"What if the Wraith are the enemy the Ancient hologram lady's talking about?" Sheppard wondered.

"All the more reason for us to have a defensible position should we have to abandon Atlantis."

Harry spoke up. "If the Wraith did defeat the Ancients, then they must be technologically advanced to some degree. Some kind of long-term perimeter warning system isn't out of the question."

"Seems a little extreme, Captain?"

"Maybe not, sir. If the Wraith took on the Ancients - which couldn't have been a cakewalk - and won, then they must started thinking long-term at some point once they won, watching for any sign of their old enemy – to whom we _are_ related. We really don't know anything about them except that they must exist."

"I suppose...still, we need more information, and we won't get that by sitting around. It's a risk we'll have to take. Captain, since you're getting along with Teyla so well, find out what you can about the Wraith. Major, you're with me in the city; Ford, head back to the Gate to check in with Atlantis; tell them we've made contact with the locals and are checking out the local area."

"Yes sir," all three junior officers spoke at once. Harry rolled his eyes._ The military's universal chorus._

Back at the tent, Teyla questioned Harry again as soon as he stepped through the flap. "You truly cannot return to your world?"

"Afraid not. One way trip. We are hoping to find some devices to aid our return home in the City of the Ancestors," Harry spoke carefully, using the Athosian name for the ruins, "but I do not believe we are likely to find any. As for the Wraith...we have never encountered them before. I hoped you could tell me more about them."

"Indeed. Then there is something you should see."

* * *

As Teyla led Harry out of the camp into the forest, Sheppard and Sumner were heading out the other way around a lake with a squad of marines following. The Colonel had decided this would be a good time to do a little digging for information.

"I noticed back on Earth that you're familiar with Captain Potter, Major."

"A little, yes sir." _Why, is he on your shitlist too, Colonel?_

"What can you tell me about him?"

"Not much – I didn't even know his real name until yesterday."

Sumner blinked. Special Forces didn't exactly advertise themselves, but that level of secrecy seemed unusual. "How did you know him before?"

Major Sheppard decided to be blunt. "You obviously know about that little unauthorised trip I took nine months ago, sir."

"I do."

"Friend of mine, Captain Lyle Holland was shot down in an Apache while providing support to a British prisoner, who had escaped from Taliban and radioed in to HQ about an hour before. He'd retrieved his gear, but was on the run with another PoW, who was badly wounded and unable to walk. I went in solo, and against orders, in a Blackhawk to extract Holland – Higher said it was too hot to get him out at that time, that it would take time to mount a full response – and that the British could extract their own man if they wanted to, that he wasn't our problem. A secondary objective. Low priority."

"That's ... cold." Sumner hadn't been expecting to sympathise with Sheppard, but you never left a man behind; it was an inviolable rule of trust between commanders and subordinates, and a cardinal rule of most Western militaries, that superiors would never abandon those they were responsible for. Breaking it rarely resulted in anything good.

"Yes sir. The British didn't take it too well either, since the aforementioned prisoner had been on a mission for _our_ government when he was captured, and British intelligence suspected he'd been compromised by a mole in the _American_ HQ in Kandahar. Anyway, I was shot down by a lucky shot to the tail rotor, but managed a controlled landing and survived unharmed. I was near Holland's last known, so I made my way to his position, intending to get him out on foot."

"Go on."

"Lyle was wounded. Taliban were all around us, and I couldn't see a decent way out. Then out of nowhere Potter shows up, carrying another British officer who'd clearly been tortured - the two PoWs I mentioned. He was bleeding from that cut that runs over his right eye – so I presume the bastards had tried some 'enhanced interrogation' techniques of their own on him. He identified himself as 'Storm,' and was clearly British, so we cooperated. I wouldn't have gotten out alive without him; neither would have Lyle. We got extracted by an RAF Chinook medevac helo that evening, with a full flight of four British Army Apaches pounding the crap out of everything that moved around us. They were really pissed that _we_ had left one of theirs to die."

"What happened to the other prisoner?"

"Don't know, sir. She was in a really bad way when we landed, and got whisked into the field hospital. I never saw either of them again until Harry introduced himself yesterday."

"Hmmm ... what was he like in combat?"

"Ice-cold."

"Really?"

"Utterly deadly, sir. He carries swords – did you notice that?"

Sumner stopped and looked at Sheppard as if he was joking. "Swords." His voice was flat, disbelieving.

"Yes sir, honest-to-god shortswords. Two of them, about a foot-and-a-half long, parkerized black blades, like a Ka-Bar. Took out a four-man Taliban patrol that was looking for us in absolute silence, in about three seconds flat; scariest goddamn thing I've ever seen. I know it's odd, but he's obviously spec-ops. The Russians train their Spetznaz guys to throw hatchets for Christ's sake; I don't think shortswords are out of the question, sir – and he definitely knows how to use them."

"Hmmm..." That seemed to be the Colonel's default non-committal response. He continued moving, mulling over what he'd just been told.

The Marines behind them had heard every word.

* * *

Teyla led Harry to a small opening in a cliff face about twelve miles from the village; over the rough terrain, it had taken them several hours to reach it. Fitted stones framed the small rectangular doorway, leading into a low, dark tunnel. Teyla lit a torch with some kind of lighter, and Harry flicked on a right-angle torch clipped to his armour. He'd ditched the rucksack in the village, but still had his rifle on his back, carrying the P-90 – leaving such things around curious kids was never a good idea.

As they rounded the first bend, he spotted a glimmer in the dirt at Teyla's feet as she led the way. Stooping to pick it up on the way past, he swept up a necklace – the glimmer was a small, circular silver pendant in the centre, tied between two leather cords with clasps.

"Seen this before?"

Teyla turned, and Harry held up the necklace. "Why yes, I lost this years ago. How did you...?"

"It was just lying right here, reflecting off the light." Harry was struck by a sudden inspiration. He stepped forward, lifting the pendant to her neck, the torchlight illuminating both their faces with a flickering warm yellow glow. Teyla didn't back away, staring challengingly into his eyes as he swept the hair back off her shoulders and did up the clasp at her nape, the pendant resting just above the laced v-neck of her white linen shirt. Holding her gaze was slightly distracting, but he managed not to fumble it.

Teyla broke the eye contact, looking down while fingering the pendant distractedly. Harry just moved away, wondering what the hell had just happened exactly. _I suppose we just had a 'moment'_, he thought with an inward chuckle. _Wasn't expecting that, although ... she's pretty exotic, to say the least. Not going to push my luck, though. _

To give Teyla some space, he turned away to flash his torch over the stone carvings in the wall. "Someone's been busy."

* * *

Teyla was rather surprised at the Captain's audacity, to say the least. She didn't let it show, however, deciding to let this play out. _He's interesting, to say the least. _

That scar was savage, clearly visible even in the half-light of the torch she carried; scoring a jagged lightning bolt on his forehead before continuing down through his eyebrow. It apparently missed his eye, but began again a half-inch below it, continuing down with a slight outward curve to a point parallel to his mouth. The wound had healed relatively cleanly, with a minimum of scar tissue; just a slightly raised red ridge down his face. The other, just below his left eye, was hidden in shadow.

_I bet he has some stories to tell about those, if he ever tells them at all. Such men are often closed off. _Potter was clearly a fighter, a man used to living on a dangerous knife-edge, his instincts honed to a razor-fine sense. It was his eyes that gave him away – they were ... experienced, and made him appear far older than she suspected he truly was. Their conversation over the past few hours had revealed surprisingly little about him personally – Sheppard had done most of the talking, eager to make a good impression, while the Captain had remained somewhat mysterious in the background despite being the one to begin the exchange.

She held his gaze for several long seconds, those green eyes intense and direct. Too intense. She looked away, and he moved back, the moment broken. _That was ... odd._

* * *

"The drawings in the caves are extensive. Many must date back thousands of years."

"This represent the destruction of your city out there?" The panel in the stone wall showed trees on the ground, with a large ship of some kind overhead and smaller, kite shaped objects around it that Harry assumed were smaller ones. A kind of conical wire-frame linked the larger ship and the ground, with human figures apparently inside it. _A cage? _There were others panels too, about three to a wall.

"This drawing far pre-dates that."

"A prophecy?" As the subject of one, Harry was rather more open minded than most on the supernatural, not that he ever let it show. W_ouldn't want to ruin my reputation as a hardcase even by Hereford's standards._

"No...I believe it happens again and again. The Wraith allow our kind to grow in numbers, and when that number reaches a certain point they return, to 'cull' their human herd. Sometimes a few hundred years will pass before they awaken again."

_Herd? That doesn't sound good._

"We have visited many worlds, and I know of none untouched by the Wraith. The last great holocaust was five generations ago, but still they return in smaller numbers to remind us of their power."

"What exactly did you mean by ... herd?"

Teyla looked surprised he'd asked ... then remembered he really didn't now anything about the Wraith. To her, this was information necessary for basic survival. "They feed on humans."

"You mean ... physically eat?"

"I do not know exactly, but they are the hunters, and we the prey." _Oh ... lovely._ "Some of us have the ability to sense the Wraith; that gives us warning." _Abilities, OK. That I can accept, I suppose. If you live in a glass house, don't throw stones. _

Teyla looked back at the entrance, judging the angle of the sun. "We should go, it will be dark by the time we get back."

"Give me a sec ... I want pictures." He pulled out a small camera. "This won't take a minute."

* * *

The first Harry knew of the attack was when Teyla suddenly stopped in her tracks. Then he heard an odd screeching noise, kind of like ...

_There can't possibly be any Formula One cars here..._

"What is it?" he asked, unslinging the rifle and securing the P-90. _Like hell I'm going up against a bunch of major alien bad guys with a calibre that starts with anything less than a seven. _

"Wraith!" Teyla started to run, so Harry followed, keeping up easily despite the armour. Trusting to the darkness to conceal his eyes, he activated his powers and pushed out. He'd been maintaining a low-level connection to the molecules around him for about twenty metres – this he did instinctively now, just a part of his situational awareness. However, he could sense their movement in the air up to two miles away if he focused hard.

_We're about a mile and half away from the camp ... three airborne targets, circling and making attack runs at high speed...nothing on the ground but trees. _Then he heard bursts of gunfire, the chatter of the lighter P-90's, and the lower-pitched snarl of the LMGs.

"_Colonel, they're on the ground! They're all around us!" _Finally, he was back in radio range.

"Teyla, what are the Wraiths' tactics?" Harry shifted to his 'combat mode,' boxing up everything but the mission. _Protect the team. Save as many locals as possible. Gather data on the Wraith._

Teyla was annoyed with herself, that she was again surprised at the question. _They don't know, they're not from here!_ "They stay in their ships! Do not trust your eyes, the Wraith can make you see things that are not there!" She continued to run full pace, hurdling fallen trees and branches

_Telepathy? Not now, wonder about it later._

* * *

Back at the camp, Sumner was starting to lose his cool. Sheppard was controlling the far side of the perimeter, and all his men were reporting seeing _something_ on the ground, flitting between the trees like ghosts. It fit the name, 'the Wraith', and he still had no real idea what they looked like; the Athosian kid's mask hadn't been much help. He tried to divide his men's fire between ground and air, but they didn't seem to be hitting anything. _No way the P-90's are going to make a hole in those fighters, they're far too light, get the AT-4's into action!_ One of the fighters swooped down, scooping up a knot of running natives in a translucent white beam. _What the fuck is that all about?_

"_Colonel Sumner, this is Storm." _The Colonel frowned ... _who the hell, oh, Potter's call-sign. _

"_What you see on the ground is just an illusion – concentrate fire on the ships. Say again, concentrate fire on the ships." _Potter's voice was calm, and that professional tone kicked the Colonel back into gear.

"FIRE ON THE SHIPS! FIRE ON THE SHIPS!"

Previously confused and dithering Marines, scanning for targets on the ground, exploded into action, acquiring the ships and firing rapid bursts. They began to switch from cover to cover in pairs, firing on the move, spurred on by the Colonel's urgently shouted order.

Looking around, Sumner spied SSgt Bates, carrying a missile tube. He grabbed the NCO's shoulder, "Snap out of it!"

"But they're everywhere, sir!" The Staff Sergeant was clearly out of his depth, scared witless by the piercing noise of the alien ships, the ghostly images in the trees, and the fires started among the tents. The Colonel caught sight of a fighter making another run straight at them above the treetops.

"Take that thing down!" The authoritative tone, along with a clear indication of a target, got Bates moving again. The Staff Sergeant's snap-shot flew straight up underneath the enemy craft, blowing it into oblivion.

Unfortunately, the triumphant feeling didn't last long.

* * *

Harry and Teyla were still running full tilt through the forest on the main track, about five hundred metres from the village. Harry picked up one of the circling ships coming in behind them; he turned to look, and decided it was on an attack run – bombs or guns, didn't matter which. "Teyla, cover!"

He dived left just as a bright white cone lanced down from the aircraft, projecting a wide circle on the ground. It missed him by a fraction, but Teyla...

"Teyla?" Harry rolled to his knees, weapon scanning. "TEYLA!"

_She can't be that far away ... what was that thing ... wait ... cones - the drawings - with people going up inside the cone ... fuck. She's been captured. What next ... call it in._

Before he could, one of the Marines was on the radio, _"Sir, the Colonel's been taken!"_

Harry heard Major Sheppard respond, but he was already sprinting for the village again.

"_Gate's coming on again; two enemy ships approaching." _That was Ford, on guard duty.

Sheppard was right on it. _"Let 'em go, they have friendlies on board. Locate the dialling device, burn those symbols into your mind!" _

_That's a good choice. Can't do anything now, but I am NOT leaving anyone to die, and we'll need the address for prisoner extraction._

As he reached the village, he found Sheppard standing amongst the burning and sparking wreckage of a downed alien ship. And on the ground -

_What in God's name is that!_

A humanoid forearm was _crawling_ in the dirt. It wasn't attached to anything – just the forearm, from below the elbow.

Sheppard fired two short bursts into the arm, and it stopped moving. They looked at each other, each clearly conveying the same thought. _What the fuck?_

One of the Athosian kids appeared behind Sheppard, crying for help. Seeing the Major was dealing with the child, Harry ignored them and went searching for his patrol pack. _I know I've got an evidence bag in there._ As a specialist reconnaissance and infiltration operative, Harry was used to having to 'bag-and-tag' items for later analysis – physical and electronic forensics like fingerprints, DNA and cellphone records played a major part in tracking the opposition players in the War on Terror. He routinely carried heavy-duty ziploc bags with him, as well as the camera he'd used earlier to take photos of the caves. _Weir will want to see that thing, and Beckett can tell us more. Also, I need to find that mask the kids were playing with earlier, that's the only thing we've got to go on what they look like. _

Twenty minutes later, they'd regrouped with the Marines and gathered the remaining Athosians – about seventy five – and moved back to the Stargate.

* * *

Emerging in Atlantis, they found the city shaking as if in an earthquake.

"Major Sheppard, who are all these people?" _Uh-oh, that isn't good._

"Survivors – the settlement was attacked. Some of our men were taken too."

"We are in no position to help anyone right now." Weir told him firmly.

"What the hell's going on?" Sheppard demanded.

"We were about to abandon the city!"

"Well, we can't go back there," Harry cut in.

"Major, Captain – the shield is about to fail, and the ocean is about to come crashing in on us. Do you have any better place for us to go?"

"Jinto?" Sheppard turned to a boy in the group of Athosians, "Do you have another address we can gate to?"

"Yes, many." The boy told Sheppard with a nod.

"He's just a boy." Weir commented. _Right, because that always stopped me._ Sheppard ignored her as well, dragging the boy towards the stairs.

"I am Jinto!" the kid introduced himself to Weir enthusiastically as he was rushed past. _Well, at least he's well mannered even in a crisis._

"She's pleased to meet you," Sheppard growled, not stopping. _Clearly not well mannered in a crisis._

As they moved up the stairs, another lurch sent them stumbling. Weir grabbed a tower of equipment to hold herself; Harry just about stayed on his feet, well-balanced enough to stay upright and being used to shifting G-forces. All the jarheads fell over.

_You'd think they would be used to the floor moving around, being part of the Navy and all._

"The shield is collapsing!" McKay's panicked shout carried down to them. Harry reached out with his ability, remapping the city as he had done before. The water had taken over quite a few parts...and he felt rather than heard a thunderous roar. To everyone else, it was lost in the confusing wash of sound, but to Harry it was blindingly obvious – he _felt_ every air molecule in his vicinity suddenly shift _downwards_ as the city rose _upwards._

"Hold!" Harry waved at Grodin, who was starting up another dialling sequence. "Hold the gate, we're moving!"

The others quickly realised he was right. A few rather adrenaline-pumping seconds later, light burst into the room from the windows in a riot of colour through the stained glass windows on all sides, the glow sweeping down the windows like they were riding a glass express elevator to, well, Heaven - _appropriate for the stained glass really_. As Atlantis settled back on the surface, all the lights in the control room switched back on, further illuminating the room. _Well, we've got power. But how much..._

Harry climbed the stairs even as everyone else clambered to their feet. Weir followed him to the window, taking in the sight of water pouring off the city piers. Out of the murky water, Atlantis was even more incredible than it had been before, a vast expanse of gleaming metal, populated by dozens of chrome and glass spires. There was art in the design, genius really – no two towers were the same, yet it all formed a balanced, matched whole, no buildings that could be called ugly or out of place.

"We were hoping for another day. Looks like we just got a whole lot more than that." Weir commented distractedly, still in awe of the city vista before them. "Let's not waste it."

Harry chose to interpret that rather more literally than she probably meant, by getting straight back to work. "Yes ma'am. Ford, who was in charge of the military contingent while we were away?"

"That would be Lieutenant Kagan, sir."

"Okay. Major Sheppard?"

"Yes, captain?"

"If you'd like to brief Dr Weir on what happened on the planet, I'll get on with re-establishing our perimeter and getting the Expedition back on its footing, and getting the Athosians assigned quarters."

"Sounds good, carry on." Sheppard turned to Weir, who led him away through the control room to the office where she'd talked to Harry when they'd reached Atlantis.

"Ford, get with McKay and give him the gate address the Wraith went to."

Ford hesitated, "I only got six symbols, sir."

_Oh hell. _"Give them to him anyway, and ask him to come up with a way of determining which of the remaining possibilities is correct. Lieutenant Kagan?"

A marine on the lower level looked up, "Uh ... yes sir?"

"You were in charge while we were off-world?"

"Yes sir."

"Okay. Marines, listen in! We were attacked by the Wraith on the planet; they took several of our people as well as locals, including Colonel Sumner, Sergeant Bates and Corporal Parker; Teyla, Halling and Toran amongst the Athosians along with a couple of others I didn't know." _Let the Athosians know we haven't forgotten their people._ "That leaves Major Sheppard and myself as the two senior ranking military personnel. We do have most of a gate address that Lieutenant Ford retrieved, so we will mount a rescue mission once we've found where they've been taken."

_They're stranded in another galaxy, and they've just lost their CO and senior NCO, so gotta lay on the good news to keep morale up._ Harry looked up at the bridge between Weir's 'office' and the Control room to see the Doctor looking pensive, and Sheppard looking mildly impressed at his handling of the marines.

"Kagan, give me a quick run-down on the layout of as much of the city as you've explored."

"Okay sir; we're in the central tower, we've got a hangar for a number of small ships above this room and nothing else. We got about nine levels down before being recalled because of the power issues – there are two staircases on the outer edges of the tower that run down to eight levels below this one where they stop; on that level you have to come inward to a central staircase to go down one more level, then back out to the two outwards staircases to carry on down."

"So... there's a choke-point?" _Would be easy to defend from attack, either from the lower tower coming up or from the Stargate going down – smart._

"Yes sir, a reasonably defensible. On those eight floors between us and the choke-point we seem to have three floors of accommodation rooms, enough for a couple of hundred people in a pinch. Apart from that, there's what appears to be a large infirmary, a floor of abandoned labs with a backup control room, several communal recreation and eating areas and a dozen or so empty rooms we think are storage – no amenities or anything, just large empty rooms, a few with shelves." _Okay, so we've got medical, accommodation, logistics, and an armoury - very smart, a self-contained command and operations area. _

Harry followed the description while comparing it to the mental map he'd built up before – he didn't want to actively reach out with his power in front of the Marines, since the eyes might be a _bit_ obvious.

"Okay. Send a fireteam to re-secure that choke-point and plan to fortify it. It's the only way in and out of the Stargate area and I want it watched twenty four-seven. Who's on logistics?"

"Master Gunnery Sergeant Santorini, sir."

"That's me, sir." The speaker was an older-looking NCO, taller with crew-cut black hair, very unlike Harry's still untidy-looking mop that'd grown out somewhat in Afghanistan.

"Okay Master Gunny, you're on quarters assignment. Both for the expedition members and our new Athosian visitors – some of them are family units, so talk to them and find out about that, and any other requirements they might have – and be polite, they've lost people too. And bear in mind that we will be rescuing a few more people, figure at least dozen or so in addition to our Marines – and it's not out of the realms of possibility we might recover prisoners from raids on other planets." _If she's still alive – wait, what? I mean, if they're still alive. _"Also, designate each science department for a storage area

"On it, sir." The Marines looked happier now, with something to do, and with someone clearly in authority. _Not a bad start on leadership for someone who's operated alone for most of his career._

"Doctor Beckett!" Harry had caught sight of the Scottish medic. "You know about the infirmary a few levels down from here?"

"Aye Captain Potter, I do."

"How soon can you set up your equipment and staff in there?"

"Give me two hours or less, laddie. What's the rush?"

Harry pointed with a thumb over his shoulder to his rucksack. "I've got a Wraith body part I'd like you to analyse – I'll give it to you when you're ready."

_Incentives, incentives. Even if they are a bit creepy. _

Carson looked surprised, then intrigued. "I'll get right on it." The doctor rushed off to get his people mobilised.

"Department heads?" A number of civilian scientists looked up from conversations. "Organise the personnel in your department, and start moving all this equipment," Harry waved at the stacks of boxes made ready for the evacuation, "_after _you talk to the Master Gunnery Sergeant," Harry pointed at Santorini, who was sending a marine to reserve some of the storage rooms for military use, "Who will tell you where to put your specific department's equipment. Any questions?" _No ... good._ "Get to it people."

Harry left the marine officers and NCOs to it, and jogged back up to the control room.

"When can you tell me where the Wraith took Colonel Sumner and the others?" Sheppard was asking McKay.

"Something I'd like know as well," Harry interjected as he entered the control room.

"Even with the six symbols Lieutenant Ford provided, there are still hundreds of permutations – "

"Seven hundred and twenty." Sheppard and Harry spoke over each other. Weir and McKay looked rather surprised. Harry shrugged. "Really good piloting requires rapid maths calculations. End of story."

"Okay...I knew that, of course." _Yeah yeah, genius, we get it, get on with it._

"Take away the coordinates you can't get a lock on, and when you find it, send a MALP."

McKay looked surprised again, that he hadn't thought of that, and moved to do so.

"Major, a word." Weir was clearly on the warpath. '_Help', _Sheppard mouthed at Harry, who followed them both out onto a balcony just next to the control room.

The view was spectacular, to say the least. Harry leant against the wall by the door, luxuriating in the feeling of being in a truly open space as the other two went to the railing, The cupboard the Dursley's had shoved him into had left him with a latent claustrophobia. It wasn't generally a problem, but occasionally sneaked up on him, so he preferred to be outside if possible – one of the many reasons he vastly preferred being on operations instead of doing paperwork in an office, despite the danger.

"Let me guess." The Major started. "You're not going to let me rescue my people."

"Major, you don't even know if they're alive." Weir was facing away from Harry, and hadn't apparently noticed him.

"You don't leave people in the hands of the enemy. And the fact that we are having this conversation in private means you know damn well that it's wrong, and that it will totally undermine your leadership. As ranking military officer I –"

"Okay, just shut up and listen to me for a moment, alright? Come on, what do we know about the Wraith? One of the few things we do know is that they're the enemy that defeated the _Ancients._ When we first began to use the Stargate back on Earth, we got in serious trouble, why?"

"I don't need a history lesson," Sheppard told her dismissively. _And t__hose who fail to learn from History are doomed to repeat it._

"Because the people in charge didn't consider the ramifications before they acted." Weir told him.

"They took our people! How am I supposed to react?"

"And we are defenceless! You said so yourself!" Weir argued. "How do you know going off on some half-assed rescue mission isn't going to bring them all right back here to our doorstep?"

"Doing nothing isn't an option." Harry spoke up, and Weir spun around, surprised. Sheppard just smirked. "With the colonel and others in the hands of the Wraith, they have our IDCs, which Earth will recognise as well – and it is a matter of time before that information is given up. If they can get to Atlantis, they can get through to Earth. According to Teyla, they feed on humans – not just hunt for amusement or sport, actually feed on - although she didn't know exactly how. Nixing the possibility of a rescue mission this early in the game is tantamount to giving up on the whole expedition – which we can't do because we're _stranded."_

"I just need more information." Weir was being stubborn. "I mean, maybe we can negotiate a peaceful -"

"Not a chance." Harry interrupted firmly. "They're aggressive, Doctor. We weren't there more than, what, twelve hours before they showed up, and they didn't ask questions – they just opened fire and abducted our people. Besides, what exactly would we offer to an interstellar empire of predatory aliens who feed on us? I for one am not keen on giving up _other _members of the expedition," Harry let that sink in for a moment, "so we've got nothing to trade, and only force to fall back on. This is why we _brought_ soldiers on this little jaunt, doctor – it's why you brought the Major, and it's definitely why you brought me, so don't deep-six our rescue attempt before we've even had five minutes to plan it."

"I wasn't going to stop you, Captain. I just wanted the Major to slow the hell down and not go off half-cocked. I will not authorise a rescue mission unless I think there is a remote chance of success. I'm not sending more good people to their deaths."

"Yes ma'am, I understand. We won't screw it up. I like being alive."

"Good. Both the Major and yourself, Captain, said that you were only there for a few hours before the Wraith showed up."

"Yes ma'am."

"Is it possible that one of the locals tipped them off? Possibly one you brought back?"

Harry and Sheppard looked at each other. "Possibly," Sheppard said slowly.

"But innocent until proven guilty, ma'am. They're here now; we can't start a witch hunt for a traitor or informant who may not exist. We'd lose their trust, and that's not a good idea."

Weir was interested in that statement. "Why, exactly? I'm not disagreeing, but why is the Athosians' trust so important? They don't seem that special."

"I spoke to Teyla for several hours, ma'am. She's visited a least two dozen different worlds for trade, maybe more. She has contacts and friends out there amongst the human population of Pegasus – such a network may prove invaluable in the future."_And because screwing the Athosian's over simply is not the right thing to do. _

"We still have to rescue her."

"Which isn't going to get done with us standing here, ma'am." Harry pointed out reasonably.

"Point taken, Captain."

* * *

"We're receiving visual telemetry."

A MALP had been sent through the Gate identified by Rodney's research as the Wraith's destination. The command team – meaning Weir, the boss; Dr McKay for the scientists, and the Sheppard and Harry as the acting military commander (CO) and acting executive officer (XO) respectively, were peering at laptops that had been set up to interface with the control room's consoles. It had been a few hours since their little debate – the civilians had moved out of the gate room, the science departments were setting up in the spare labs and Carson was analysing the Wraith arm. Harry had just returned from organising the Marines to begin sweeping the levels of the central tower below their new checkpoint.

"I can't see anything ..." Weir said.

"No atmospheric readings at all."

On the screen, crackling with static, something round flashed across the darkness.

"Wait, what was that?"

"Rotate the camera" Rodney ordered.

On the display, the darkness was replaced by a view of the rings of a planet...with the gate hanging in orbit around it. _Oh, bugger. That's going to put a wrinkle in the plan._

"Well, there goes that MALP," McKay commented sarcastically.

"It's in space!" Sheppard's voice was incredulous.

"It's in high orbit around a planet on the far side of the galaxy."

"You're sure this is the right address?" Weir asked.

"It's the only one we could get a lock on." McKay confirmed dejectedly.

"Very well." Weir moved to leave. "Shut it down." To Sheppard, as she left, "I'm sorry."

Harry watched this without commenting. This wasn't exactly his area of expertise yet, having only stepped through the Stargate for the first time the day before. _Adapt and overcome, hmmm._ _Think it through ...__ we have a tactical constraint: the gate is in space, how do we get around that ... space_craft_... _

Dr McKay, it turned out, solved the problem for him. "Come with me Major." Harry tagged along, because he was fairly certain where this was going - Kagan had mentioned a 'hangar', and that was where the Canadian led them. In a large octagonal room above Stargate Operations, a squadron of small ships sat on pads arranged around the room in two stories. They were a dark bronze in colour, their sides ribbed with geometrically patterned grooves; the top and sides were slightly curved outwards, while the front and rear ends were slanted backwards, with a ramp at the tail and a wide view-port at the bow.

Inside was a rear cargo section with benches and overhead lockers for equipment; the front section had two seats for pilots with the central console in front and between them, with two passenger seats behind. Sheppard and Harry made their way up to the pilot seats, turning on the console with a touch.

"Think you can fly this thing?"

"Absolutely." Harry saw the other two give him somewhat sceptical looks at this firm declaration. "I can feel this ship already, like I can reach out to it, command it."

And he could. When the console systems activated, he'd suddenly had a rather disorienting peripheral awareness of 'seeing' through the sensors, interfacing with the computer systems in a rapid sequence. _Navigation – engines – environmental – hull integrity – Dial-Home-Connection – weapons systems– stealth systems. _He could 'read' status reports on all of them – green across the board – and knew instantly that he would be able to get very fine control from this thing by 'reaching' out to it mentally, as well as using the physical controls - a pair of joysticks and manual sliders and dials on the console.

"Give me ten minutes to figure out what this thing can do, and then get Weir." Harry ordered McKay. "We've found ourselves an advantage. Nightstalkers would go nuts over this thing."

"Wait, I didn't know you served with the 160th?"(2) Sheppard was confused. He'd thought Captain Potter was a ground-pounder, forward observer or something. He had a big AFO patch – Advanced Force Operations, basically air strike controllers deployed behind enemy lines – on his right arm proclaiming this to the world.

"No, but I know a lot of guys in the 160th S.O.A.R. – I should, I spent a lot of money on them buying rounds of drinks for pulling my arse of out a few sticky situations in Afghanistan." Harry paused, still studying the little ship. "We've got stealth systems, some weapons, vacuum proof hull ... and it's designed to go through the gate. We got ourselves an infiltration aircraft on steroids."

* * *

Weir of course had her reservations, but had approved the mission. Those reservations were mostly about the fact that the whole thing would have to be planned on the fly – after they deployed through the gate, with absolutely no intel on the Wraith bar what Dr Beckett had managed to discern from the Wraith arm – which wasn't good. The Wraith possessed an unparalleled biological capability for regeneration, meaning they pretty much lived forever and were, in Carson's words, 'bloody hard to kill.'

She was also worried that she would be without a senior commander if Sheppard, Harry and Ford were killed on the mission. Sheppard reluctantly bowed out, acknowledging that Harry had both skills better suited to the infiltration mission as well as having a superior connection with the Ancient ship. Thus, Harry, Ford, Staff Sergeant Stackhouse and Sergeants Markham, Cole, Smith and Matthews were geared up and settling down in the Ancient ship, waiting for Dr McKay to give them clearance from the control room. Harry had chosen all NCO's for his infiltration team – the last thing he wanted was an inexperienced or trigger-happy soldier tripping an alarm or something.

"Flight, this is Storm. We are go for launch."

"_Storm, Flight. I thought we were going with Gateship?"_ Harry could hear Sheppard scoffing in the background. "_Little puddle-jumper like that? Those things aren't 'ships'. Besides that's his call-sign, not the ship, idiot."_

"Can't say I care, Flight. You can call it whatever you want."

"_Standby." _A brief silence_. "Fine, Major, whatever. Puddle Jumper, you are clear to launch."_

"Dial it up, Lieutenant." Ford started punching buttons.

The hatch covering the hole in the floor of the hangar retracted in a complex iris pattern, six segments retreating into the walls of a short tunnel down into the Gate Room. Harry let the Jumper ride an automatically engaged autopilot sequence down into position in front of the active gate, ending with a pulse from a set of anti-gravity generators in the stairs behind them, pushing them through the wormhole.

* * *

On the far side, the puddle-jumper soared through space for a few seconds before vanishing into thin air ... or vacuum, which was extremely thin by any measure. From the inside, there was no apparent change, but a heads-up display appeared over the forward view-screen. To Ford's astonishment, the text scrolling in front of him was in English.

"Is that you, sir?"

"Yes. This thing is incredible; it's like its reading my mind. It's displaying everything in English and standard metric units. Must have just taken them right out of my brain, realising that's what I'd understand best." Harry spoke distractedly; he was scanning the planet with a variety of different sensor systems that the little ship carried – all the standard human ones: visual, infra-red, thermographic, radar and LIDAR; but also a number of things he had no direct experience with: radiographic imaging, electromagnetic and gravitational field strengths, and remote spectroscopic chemical analysis amongst others the ship's computer couldn't actually translate for him yet, so probably measured something he had never heard of. It was clearly designed with both military recon and scientific analysis in mind, although probably leaned towards the latter, since it wasn't all that manoeuvrable at high speed.

"Looks like you got the hang of it, sir."

"Oh yes, this thing is a joy to fly."

"How do we find them once we land?"

Even as Harry concentrated on that requirement, a small panel opened on the bulkhead to his left, extending a small white handset, which Harry took and shoved behind a strap on his armour for later examination. _Apparently the ship thinks that thing is useful...does it have more? _On the dividing wall between the pilots area and cargo compartment, a longer panel retracted, revealing four more of the small white boxes. Both Harry and Ford turned at the sound.

"Apparently that's your answer, Lieutenant. Don't know what they do yet, but give 'em out when we land."

"Yes sir. If you don't mind me asking, sir, what exactly do you do? That uniform and equipment isn't British standard issue."

Harry looked at him, then forward again. "Well, I told Teyla yesterday that I was a 'protector of the innocent.'"

"Aren't we all, sir?"

"Heh ... true. However, it's a politer option than saying 'professional assassin', don't you think?"

"Ah ..." Ford was SF trained himself, although relatively new to the profession, and had met more than a few extremely dangerous soldiers. None had ever actually identified themselves solely as a cold-blooded killer before, preferring terms more along the lines of 'operator' or 'specialist'. Actually calling yourself an assassin rather than some kind of specialist soldier was a whole different level of apparent sociopathy.

"Relax, Ford, I'm kidding. I'm a paramilitary operative. I specialised in solo infiltration missions and long-term deep reconnaissance and surveillance. Spent most of my career working directly for the Secret Intelligence Service or the Prime Minister, almost all of it in Afghanistan with a few jaunts elsewhere."

Ford looked somewhat happier at that.

Harry had quickly discussed revealing his powers to Sheppard and maybe Ford earlier with Dr Weir. However, she still wanted them secret – they were rather unusual powers, not something even a paranoid enemy would ever have a plan to counter without specific intelligence about them. She'd ordered him not to use anything other than a bare minimum for the mission, until they could determine whether or not the Wraith would be able to detect him using them – as an advanced, enigmatic alien race, no-one on Atlantis had any idea what they might be capable of until they could do some digging in the Ancient database.

The heads-up display beeped, and highlighted an area on the planet's surface, with the text 'Wraith Hive' floating next to it. Harry took the Jumper down through the atmosphere, choosing a landing zone roughly a kilometre from the 'hive' beacon, landing with the ramp pointing towards the enemy and leaving the ship cloaked. The Marines spread out in a tight defensive circle, having up-gunned after Beckett dropped his bombshell. _Hard to kill? Bring more firepower, the more the merrier._ Harry had seven men including himself – three scout pairs and one man to guard the ship, their only way home. One half of each pair had a P-90, while the other carried an M249 LMG. Just in case.

"Move out in pairs." Harry ordered as he moved down the ramp. "Ford, you're with me. Stackhouse with Markham, Cole with Smith. Matthews on guard duty, sorry." The Marine grimaced but nodded. "Stay inside the jumper, at the door. The cloak will cover you even with the hatch open. When you see or hear us coming back, move out of the cloak so we can see you and find the ship."

"Got it, sir." Matthews turned back into the ship and vanished into thin air. _Bloody hell, that thing is brilliant._

"Everybody else, infiltrate the Wraith perimeter. Find out whatever those little devices are – tactical sensors of some kind most likely." Harry had activated all of the Ancient PDA things with a touch a minute ago. "Plant as much C4 as you have, try to get it on critical points. I know none of us have any idea what Wraith tech looks like, but look for anything that looks like a critical target – power conduits, generators, that kind of thing. _Do not_ engage the enemy unless fired upon. Ford and I will be pushing deep to locate the hostages, I don't want to have to bust them out while the alarm's going off because one of you had an itchy trigger finger, got it?" The Marines nodded. "All right, three clicks means Ford or I am clear to talk. Move out." _Once more unto the breach..._

The ground between them and the Wraith base was primarily covered in scrub bushes and dead trees. Once past it, the base turned out to be a massive hill, so presumably the Wraith 'Hive' was underneath it somewhere. They located an opening in a few minutes, which took them down a narrow entrance and into a larger interior tunnel.

_Caves. Always fucking caves. I thought I was done with cave fighting when I left Afghanistan. _

The Wraith's architecture inside the caves was ... well, alien. It was made of a mixture of metal and a lot of some sort of biological material for the supports and wall covering. The blue ambient lighting and low-lying layer of swirling fog along the floor didn't add to the décor either. It was a veritable rabbit warren, with tunnels, nooks and crannies running off in every direction. _If this is a cave system, they must have hollowed out the whole bloody hill._ The whole place smelled...stale, too. Stagnant air, like it wasn't used very much.

Heavy, stomping footsteps announced the arrival of a guard – it couldn't be anything else, with that walk. Harry caught sight of the back of an armoured humanoid figure with long white hair, carrying a long weapon in both hands – it was hard to make out much more in the blueish gloom. His silenced P-90, modified with his own components, tracked the guard as it continued down the corridor and around the corner.

"Thought getting in was going to be the hard part." Ford spoke quietly, as he planted a C4 charge. "That's the first one we've seen."

Harry was looking at the screen of the Ancient PDA, watching a blinking square move away from the dot in the centre. "You got yours?"

"Yes sir." Ford took out one of the devices.

"The little squares are apparently Wraith. Little circles are humans. Got a range of about twenty metres at the moment..." Harry fiddled with the controls, guessing since he couldn't read Ancient yet, until he'd widened the field of view significantly. "I've got a cluster of humans about fifty metres further in from here. But I'm not sure if they're on this level, could be below or above us. I've got point."

"Got it, sir."

Ten minutes and three demo charges later, after dodging the occasional patrolling guard, Ford and Harry arrived at the human life signs' location – a large cell, apparently, with some kind of solid web-like bars over the door - and a guard.

* * *

Teyla was terrified, although she didn't show it. Her people still looked to her for guidance, even in captivity, so she remained strong for them. Her studiously calm demeanour had prevented panic even after Toran was taken. Sumner and his Marines had tried every conceivable way to force open the doors, kick a hole in the walls, anything. But it was all in vain. Next to be taken, the Colonel's quiet dignity as he was led out by the Wraith raised Teyla's opinion of the man considerably.

Halling and Sergeant Bates were still trying to force the door open when she heard the stomping footsteps of the Wraith guard, making a patrol as one of them did every hour or so. Like just about every other time, he stopped at the gate, checking on the food. Beyond the Wraith's bulky form, she caught a flash of something moving down the corridor behind it, but couldn't see whatever it was properly.

Then a sword was rammed through back of the Wraith's neck, emerging through the face-mask about where the mouth would be. The force of the blow slammed the guard forward into the bars as its weapon dropped from suddenly slack hands. The blade was withdrawn, and the alien slid down the bars and to the side, revealing Captain Potter; _The Warrior_, as she'd named him in her mind._  
_

* * *

"Captain!"

"Shhhh." _Hello, Teyla. Bet you're glad to see us._

"How did you find us?"

"Gotta love the Ancients." Harry peered through the bars. "Where's Colonel Sumner?"

"Taken by the Wraith." Bates was even more grim than usual, which was saying something.

"We do not know where." Teyla added.

"When?"

"Not long."

"Well, that's something." Harry clicked the radio three times.

"_Stackhouse, go ahead sir."_

"Sit rep, over."

"_Both infiltration teams have planted all charges and returned to the transport, sir."_

"On my mark, I need a diversion. Detonate the charges, make some noise."

"_Yes, sir." _Stackhouse sounded pleased, even over the radio. _Gotta love the USMC – always looking to blow something up._

"Ford, prepare to breach this door and guide these people out of here. I'll find the Colonel with the life-signs thing. If I'm not back in fifteen, blow the cell and get out of here without me."

"You're the only one who can fly these people out of here, sir." _Oh hell. Good point._

"I'll fly us out of here - all of us. I don't leave a man behind, Lieutenant." _Been on the receiving end of that myself, and it isn't pleasant. _"Fifteen minutes, Ford."

"Yes, sir."

* * *

Five minutes later, Harry heard screams coming from further down the corridor. _Sumner_. Moving quickly towards the sound, he tucked the handheld Ancient detector into his thigh pocket.

He found himself on a walkway running around a larger room with a central table with two chairs, although a corpse rested in one of them. Sumner was kneeling at the far end, with a Wraith with long red hair, pale skin and a white dress standing over him, torturing him. _Ancients called it a Hive. Guess that makes her the Queen. _Two guards stood on either side of the table. Harry considered shooting, but abandoned that option. The walkway was mostly covered in a thick metal decorative lattice structure, which would provide good cover but no decent way down into the room...there. Harry spotted a larger gap in the lattice half way round the room, large enough for him to easily get through. He'd have to be careful about this, as it was directly in one of the guard's line of sight.

"Where is this new feeding ground?" The Queen's voice was oddly modulated, and was hoarser and deeper than a humans.

"I ... won't ..." Sumner got out, groaning.

Moving crouched, he crab-walked around to the gap, Sumner's screams continuing to echo throughout the room. _Sorry Colonel, but if I screw it up and get killed, you won't thank me either._ Once there, he stood, back to the partition, and took a deep breath to calm himself, and reached out with his power. Underground like this he couldn't create lightning, but he could use it to check his surroundings. _Wraith on patrol a corridor away, coming this way. Make it quick, before he arrives_. _Okay, standby ... go._

Pivoting around his cover, the laser sight of Harry's P-90 found the far guard's head. The Wraith saw him and jerked its head up, but didn't have time for anything else before a silenced 5.7mm round blew its' brains out over the floor behind it. The second guard was half-way turned when it followed the first, sprawling sideways at an odd angle against a chair.

Harry glanced at the Queen ... and was both astonished and frankly terrified in a way he hadn't been since Voldemort's possession of him years before. Sumner was ... old. Aged. His hair was now white, with cloudy eyes and reduced musculature. He was also no longer screaming, apparently too weakened. The Wraith Queen removed her hand from his chest, leaving a bloody wound, and hissed at Harry in triumph, baring her teeth in a completely inhuman, animalistic gesture.

He had frozen too long. As he was distracted, the patrolling Wraith had turned the corner and brought its weapon up to fire. Harry didn't have time to shoot back, so he threw himself out the gap, diving full length on the table, landing on his side. There was a distinct breaking sound as he hit, and it wasn't the table. _Cracked a few ribs there_.

The table, balanced on a central support, overbalanced from his weight and fell over, dumping him on the floor in a shower of fruit bowls and silver wine goblets. From his position lying on the floor, he fired a three round burst through the Queen's chest and scrambled to his feet, crouching behind the minimal cover of the table. The queen was knocked over backwards by the impact, but was still moving.

_Tough bitch._

The third guard fired on him from the upper level, hitting the table. Harry turned, laser beam once again lancing out to the target. _No time for proper aim. _He fired, squeezing off a long burst that threw sparks off the metal walls and walked bullet-holes across the Wraith's chest. This one didn't wear armour of any kind, just a long leather coat, and five or six solid hits threw it back against the wall behind.

Harry stood, turning to cover the Queen once more, who was rising to her feet, the bullet-holes in her chest sealing as he watched. Before he could fire, she moved with inhuman speed, flowing across the distance between them to slam her hand into his chest, apparently trying to do the same to him that she did to Sumner. She shrieked in rage when the blow failed to pierce his armour, and simply threw him onto his back a few metres away, the P-90 knocked out of his hand.

_Lost a few more ribs there...no point in using the sidearm if the P-90 wasn't enough...old fashioned way it is._

Harry flipped to his feet, ignoring the pain from his broken ribs, and drew his twin tactical swords from the low-profile holsters on his back. The blades were non-reflective parkerized black, custom-ordered for him by his old Eskrima instructor Daniel Kirkland from a traditional Japanese master sword-smith. They were his most valuable possessions; literally, actually. Quite apart from the emotional attachment, they were valued at tens of thousands of pounds, being genuine, highest quality Japanese , laminated and tempered carbon steel handmade swords, not cheap reproductions made of lower-quality stainless steel. His guardian Jeremy Wilson had helped pay for them, as had the by-that-point knighted Sir Harold Pearce of MI-5, but none of them mentioned the gift until the night they gave them to him, upon his graduation from Special Forces Selection (3). The 22-inch swords – oversized straight fighting knives really – were normally attached handle-down on his back, with a quick-release retaining strap holding them in that opened with a hard jerk, like when drawing the swords in a hurry.

The Queen was taken aback by the appearance of the weapons, surprised anyone would attempt to use such antiques on her, then hissed in triumph again – but her arrogance would be her undoing.

Instead of fighting smart, such as going for one of the guards' weapons lying on the floor, the Wraith Queen slashed out directly at him with metal claws grafted in place of fingernails, no subtlety in her movements despite her incredible speed. However, now he was prepared for both that speed and her unusual strength, Harry wasn't going to be taken by surprise again. He ducked under the blow, and the Queen went right past him, not expecting such agility.

One thrust severed the tendons at the back of her knee as he spun past her. As she fell to one knee, he reversed the sword in his left hand and slammed it through her back right about where the heart would be on a human. Close quarter fights were rarely long, protracted affairs but rather tended to be over almost as soon as they began, especially if one of the fighters made a critical, early mistake – she had, being overconfident, and he had capitalised upon it. The obviously alien physiology of the Wraith aside, they had rib cages and rib cages were presumably evolved to hold and protect vital organs of some kind.

He was correct about the critical area. The Queen screamed in pain, her cries reaching every part of the underground complex. Harry sensed another pair of Wraith soldiers running to her assistance and judged them to be at least ten seconds away. He slid one of the blades home into its scabbard, thumbed the transmit button and ordered, "Light 'em up, Sergeant."

Stackhouse's reply was a rippling series of detonations in the passages along the edge of the complex that the two pairs of marines had infiltrated. Ford had the detonator for the ones they had planted, and wouldn't blow them until the hostages had been extracted out that same route.

Even as the caves rocked from the shock waves Harry yanked his other sword out of the Queen with a twist for extra damage and rolled for cover behind the table once more as she toppled to the ground.

As the two guards entered, Harry popped up from his cover and fired straight at the first target's head, and the Wraith dropped like a puppet with its strings cut. Its' partner caught sight of Harry and returned fire, however, forcing him to duck once more, going prone and rolling out to the right side of the overturned his new position on the floor he surprised the guard, who was no longer aiming at him, and double-tapped it in the chest.

The slow .45 calibre slugs had little effect on the Wraith's body armour, merely knocking it off balance, so Harry followed up with an aimed headshot that put the second guard on the ground with his friend.

As he rose and looked around for his P-90, the Queen spoke.

"You don't know what you have done," she rasped. Harry listened but appeared to ignore her, picking up his second blade and putting it away, securing the retaining strap with his thumb then stepping over to his dropped P-90. "When I die, the others will awaken." She took a shuddering breath – her last. "_All of them..."_

A high-pitched, but quieter shrieking noise filled the caverns, but it wasn't from the Queen. The ancient device in his pouch started to bleep, increasingly rapidly. When he pulled it out, the screen showed Wraith life signs popping into existence all around him.

_But since they aren't right next to me, they must be below ... or above. _Glancing up, Harry saw the ceiling coming alight with glowing hexagonal pods. In each segment of every hexagon, a humanoid shadow writhed ... Wraith waking from some kind of stasis. And there were hundreds of pods. In this one, small room.

_Not good, not fucking good at all..._

As Harry ran with renewed urgency to Sumner's fallen body, his radio crackled.

"_Captain, it's Ford. Where are you?"_

"Get moving, Lieutenant. I'll be about a minute behind you." Ford didn't reply, but another explosion, closer this time, rocked the caves a few seconds later - breaching the cell door.

The Colonel was still bleeding from the chest wound, but not that badly. However, he was barely breathing and clearly unconscious. Harry knew he'd be slowed down by carrying Sumner, but if the man was still alive he wasn't going to leave him. He quickly pulled the marine commander onto his left shoulder in a fireman's carry, realising at once that the Wraith's torture had removed a vast amount of the man's body mass, presumably in atrophied muscle given his gaunt, shrunken appearance.

With his burden secure on his shoulder, Harry retraced his steps at a run, unwilling to chance getting lost in the warren of dark, spooky tunnels. Although he wasted a few seconds figuring out which passage to take since he obviously couldn't climb back up to the upper level, he was past the hostage's cell in a minute or so – now with a gaping hole in the door-web – and caught up to the larger group as they exited the Hive. Ford was counting them out, and the relief on his face was clear as he caught sight of the Captain double-timing it down the passageway behind them.

"Nice to see you again, sir."

"Likewise, Lieutenant. Halling?"

"Captain?"

"I need you to carry the Colonel while I lead us back." Harry gently lowered the unconscious officer off his shoulder and passed him over. "You're the strongest guy here."

"I will do my best, Captain Potter."

"That's the Colonel? What did they do to him?" Ford was horrified.

"Don't know, Ford. We'll sort it out later. Teyla, there was another body, looked like one of your people."

"That would be Toran, Captain. He is dead?"

"Yes, unfortunately. No time for that - Ford, blow the charges, then take the rear, let's move."

"Yessir!"

Harry led the way at a run as explosions rippled behind them, hurdling fallen trees as they cut back through the dead woods around the Hive. He felt rather than saw Ford and Teyla fall behind to guard the rear, but wasn't worried until he heard the wailing 'Formula 1' noise of the Wraith ships overhead. As he reached the Jumper with the others, Matthews stepped into view toting a LMG. As the sergeant waved the others inside the cloaked ship, Harry switched weapons with him, passing over the P-90.

"I'll give this back in a moment, Sergeant. Incoming enemy fast air, get the rockets out. Don't fire unless compromised." With that, Harry sprinted back the way they'd come. About a hundred metres in, he felt an enemy ship come in at low level, tracking blue energy bolts across the path in front of him, the explosions knocking Ford and Teyla to the ground as they ran for the Jumper. Bracing the weapon against his shoulder, he fired short bursts of fire at the next dart-shaped craft to start an attack run. _Definitely the name for it._ The Dart peeled off, one wing trailing fire and smoke.

"Thank you, sir." Ford clambered up from the ground. Harry, ever the gentleman despite his brutal appearance, offered his hand to Teyla who accepted his assistance with a small smile.

"No problem, Ford. No time to chat, let's go."

Back at the Jumper, Harry passed Matthews the LMG as he entered the cloaking field. Sergeant Markham looked up from where he was treating Colonel Sumner's chest wound.

"He's alive and I've done my best, sir, but I can't do anything about ..." Markham waved helplessly at the prematurely aged Colonel.

"I know, Sergeant. Best chance for him is to get him back to Beckett ASAP." Harry jumped over the prone officer and slid into the pilots seat even as he 'sank' into the awareness of the ship – that was the only word he could think of that described the connection.

Staying cloaked, he lifted the puddle-jumper off the ground and pushed it to maximum thrust as they blasted out of the atmosphere at a steep angle, the artificial gravity keeping everyone in their seats despite the near-vertical incline. Ford joined him after conferring with the Sergeant for a moment, then Teyla and Halling behind them.

"Everybody okay back there?"

"We are well enough, Captain."

Then the gate came into view, with a swarm of Wraith Darts surrounding the approach ... _oh crap. Simple but effective. _Harry brought the cloaked jumper to a stop and leaned back, studying the Wraith's formation. They were all facing one way...

"What is wrong?" Halling asked.

"See the Darts?" Harry gestured to the ships. "We're safe as long as they can't see us. However, as soon as the gate activates, they'll start firing blind and blow us away with sheer weight of fire on our run in. It's probably a tactic that's worked for them before."

"Any way around that problem, sir?"

"Well ... I dislike it when the enemy has bigger guns than I do, so ..." Harry reached into the ship's computer, seeking the 'weapons' section he'd seen before. _Weapons. Drones, as the Ancient's called them ... can take out multiple targets with a single missile ... oh, hello ..._

"So we just sit here and wait for you to come up with a brilliant plan, sir?" Ford joked in the silence, trying to lighten the suddenly depressed mood.

"Yep ... aaand the wait's over. I've got a plan." Harry took the controls again, guiding them around the side of the Wraith formation, out of the line of fire. "They're all lined up, completely stationary. Easy prey. Dial the gate, Lieutenant."

Ford obliged and started punching buttons. As the vortex of boiling pseudo-water boiled out of the ring, the Darts followed the prediction and commenced fire.

Thus, when Harry's jumper uncloaked off to their relative left in space and passing at high speed 'over' above them, instantly extending and firing a rack of drones – a total of four was all Harry believed he could control mentally right now – they were caught completely off guard, and facing the wrong way.

The Ancient drones were precision guided, anti-capital ship missiles. O'Neill's Repository-enhanced precision use of the Drone Chair back on Earth had shown that a grand total of two drones were all that were required to take down a Goa'uld Ha'tak class mothership, a powerful type of warship that had terrorized that galaxy for thousands of years. The drones emitted a extremely high-intensity, high-temperature energy field in a wedge in front of them, melting through nearly all forms of conventional matter and energy shielding. They were also capable of passing completely through the aforementioned 'any form of matter' unharmed and making multiple attack runs before running out of power.

An unshielded Wraith Dart that could apparently be damaged with a 5.56mm bullet as Harry had just done earlier was frankly a _pathetic_ excuse for a target to use them on, but ... _there's_ _no such thing as overkill._

Therefore, with four drones, Harry scored solid hits on every single one of the Wraith Darts guarding the gate – thirteen total – a string of detonations spreading debris in small clouds around their previous stations.

"That's gotta be a record for an RAF pilot; becoming a multiple ace in fifteen seconds flat with three times as many kills scored as weapons fired." Harry muttered as he pulled around for a run at the gate. Sensors had another four Darts accelerating up from the atmosphere, and they'd be just a few seconds behind. "Atlantis, this is Storm. IDC will be transmitted shortly; we have a T1 casualty, repeat T1 casualty. Please have Dr Beckett waiting in the Hangar."

"_Storm,_ _Atlantis Base, we copy serious medical emergency. Please transmit recognition code."_

"Punch in your code, Lieutenant." Ford tapped keys on the wrist-mounted IDC transmitter as they approached the gate.

"_Code received, shield is down. Beckett's on his way._"

"We're going too fast."

"Not exactly." Harry didn't bother to explain that the ship had given him an apparently automatic reminder about inertial dampeners in the Gate Room, presumably designed for exactly this situation. "Hang on." The engine pods retracted, and they shot into the wormhole. Behind them, two of the Darts were close enough to follow before the Gate deactivated.

On the far side, their high speed exit was extremely dramatic, de-accelerating from 'bat out of hell' to 'zero' in about five metres, and fortunately the inertial compensator prevented them from becoming paste against the front windscreen.

_Great braking distance on this thing._

Harry caught sight of Weir yelling something but he didn't hear it on the radio. He also saw the blue flares across the walls from the gate – apparently some Wraith pilots had just had a rather bad day, running into the shield over the wormhole. The autopilot programme took over again and lifted them back up through the hangar floor opening. Sheppard was standing at the top of the stairs in front of the gate, his relief at their safe return obvious, so Harry flipped him a casual salute and a grin as they vanished upwards.

* * *

Sumner didn't make it. Despite the best efforts of Beckett and his expert team, the Colonel's body had been reduced to a bare husk, too weak to support life any longer. He hung on long enough to whisper something to Sheppard in the infirmary an hour later. The Major walked out with a sombre expression, one that was repeated in the small contingent of off-duty Marines waiting in the hallway, along with Harry, Doctor Weir and Teyla.

"What'd he say, sir?" Ford asked quietly for the rest of them.

Sheppard looked up. "Kill 'em all. That's what he said."

"Can't say I disagree with that." Weir muttered to herself.

"Not very diplomatic, Doctor." Harry smirked.

"I'm all for diplomacy, Captain, as long as the other party is interested in holding to the terms. Unfortunately, it seems the Wraith literally suck the life out of us, and consider us food, which puts a bit of a crimp in friendly relations, wouldn't you say?"

Weir pushed off the wall she'd been leaning against, and spoke a little louder, since it was obvious the nearby Marines had heard everything. "If Stargate Command beat an entire galaxy filled with parasitic false gods, I don't see any reason we can't put a dent in a horde of space vampires if we're careful and patient about it."

"Bit of a turnaround, actually." Harry said thoughtfully.

"How so, Captain?"

"Back on Earth, we've been fighting a relatively low-tech insurgency with a sledgehammer in Afghanistan and Iraq." Harry shrugged. "I would know; I spent so much time in Afghanistan the Taliban had their own nickname for me. Here, we _are _basically the insurgents, except we've got this whole city of advanced technology to play with. Here, we can be a scalpel, _and_ a sledgehammer. That makes it a whole different playing field, as you Americans say. Yes, we've lost the Colonel – I won't belittle his sacrifice today – but we haven't lost the war yet, not by a long shot." The Marines seemed somewhat happier with this interpretation, and dispersed back to quarters or duty assignments with higher morale than they had previously had.

* * *

The command team - Weir, McKay, Sheppard and Harry again, but this time with Teyla as a local ambassador – congregated in the office next to the control room that Dr Weir had appropriated for her own use.

"Was what you said the truth, Captain Potter?" Teyla asked straight out. "Do you have a chance to defeat the Wraith?"

Again, Harry shrugged. "Mostly, Teyla. I'm not going to lie, it won't be easy. I was sugar-coating it a little for the Marines, they needed to hear something very positive after losing their CO. But it is possible. However, from what I heard before icing the Wraith Queen, she was asking the Colonel something like '_Where is this new feeding ground_,' which implies he was forced to give up at least some intel about Earth. We have to assume that information was passed on despite her death, as letting the Wraith reach Earth is not an option."

"Earth has a population of at least six billion humans, Teyla." Weir explained to the astonished Athosian.

"So many! But ... you're right, that will be a huge lure for the Wraith, especially now that they've awakened and will require many more victims to feed their soldiers..." Teyla trailed off as the full impact of that thought hit her. The citizens of the Pegasus Galaxy were going to pay a heavy price for this new war.

"This is going to be messy." Sheppard commented quietly. "We can't possibly come close to saving them all."

"I know." Weir sighed, leaned back. "But we can do something, so we will."

* * *

Teyla was impressed, both at the city – the true City of the Ancestors, so it seemed – and at the impromptu party thrown together by the expedition members. The Earthers – or Earthlings, as they sometimes called themselves, although it seemed to be a joke for some reason – seemed to bounce back quickly, much like her own people; not dwelling on the past but focusing on the future. She could hardly claim to be an expert in military or scientific affairs, but the vast majority of the Expedition's personnel seemed to honest, hard-working and incredibly intelligent; although some of that was down to better education, she was sure. As the Athosians had lived nomadically for generations, on the move to avoid the Wraith, no more than basic education had ever been necessary. Earth, free from the destructive culling of the Wraith, had clearly moved far beyond any other culture she had ever encountered in her extensive trading in her own galaxy. Hopefully her people could start on that road themselves under the protection of Atlantis.

"Gentlemen." Weir was behind her, talking to the three military officers, and carrying a cluster of metal mugs. "I thought the occasion merited this – compliments of General O'Neill."

"Really? I suppose. Cheers." Sheppard didn't sound particularly happy about it. "Doesn't seem like we've made many more friends out there."

"No? Look around you." Weir gestured with her cup to the reunion of Halling and his son Jinto as they stood at the railing, looking out over the city. Teyla decided some positive reinforcement was needed.

"I agree, Major Sheppard." Teyla made her way over to the taller officer with a smile, and placed both hands on his shoulders, lowering her head for a traditional Athosian salutation between friends and family, touching foreheads gently. She didn't expect him to know it, but Halling and Jinto had just done so right in front of him, so he would probably work it out.

She was right. Sheppard seemed perturbed for a moment, and this apparently amused Lieutenant Ford if the slight sniggering was any indication. However, he reciprocated a second later, and she leaned back and looked at the others.

"You have earned both my friendship, and that of my people." She moved to Captain Potter to do the same thing, placing her hand on his shoulders and looking straight into his eyes. "And with our help you will make many more friends." The Warrior –_ why am I still labelling him that now I know his name_ – seemed amused, but was quicker on the uptake than Sheppard, and raised his hands to her waist, lowering his head.

A moment later, when they were both leaning back and she was once again looking into his emerald green eyes – their sheer presence and power not marred at all by the savage scars, his mouth quirked in a slight smile.

"_Shokran_, Teyla." His tone was solemn, as if a promise had been made. _I don't know what that means, but it seems appropriate._

"Arabic, Harry?" Weir sounded surprised.

He grimaced. "I _have_ spent a long time in the region. Going native seems to have crept up on me." His eyes darkened, staring off into some memory only he could see, one that seemed to make him go cold and more distant even with him standing with her hands still on his shoulders. He was wearing a green short-sleeved shirt, and even more scars were visible than before, criss-crossing his arms in an intricate pattern of newer, violent red lines layered over the top of older, faded, white ones. "I always liked the language, even if certain other aspects of the culture were more ... reprehensible."

After the others had dispersed a few minutes later, Teyla joined Harry once more where he leaned the railing, looking out at the darkened city, waiting to be explored. They stood in comfortable silence for some seconds before Teyla gave in to her curiosity.

"What does it mean?"

"_Shokran?_" The Warrior shifted to look at her, that slight smile returning as if he found something amusing no one else could see. "It means 'Thank you.' In this case, thank you for your friendship, Teyla. Such a gift means a lot to me. I don't have many friends." His expression grew distant again, but not cold; a different, less painful memory. "I've led a rather ... solitary existence for the last few years. My whole life, in some ways."

"How old are you, Captain?" _He appears far older than he really is, I'm sure of it. _

The smile returned. "Why, such a personal question, Lady Emmagan."

Teyla laughed, having come across aristocratic societies in her travels, so she knew what he meant by the title. "I am no Lady, Captain." Then she grimaced internally, _the double meanings..._

"Well, you have the bearing of one, Teyla." Fortunately the Captain didn't take advantage of her slip, although from the way his smile widened he had seen the opportunity for innuendo. "And call me Harry – I've never bothered to stand on formality before."

"Certainly, Harry. And you didn't answer my question."

"Well ... I have to maintain some aura of mystery, don't I?" Harry pushed off the railing. "I need to get back to work, check on the Marines. _Ma'salaama_, Teyla. _Ela al'lekaa._" He paused. "Those are 'goodbye' and 'I'll see you soon,' by the way."

"I very much hope to, Harry." _You are ever more intriguing, Warrior. And I do like having a mystery to unravel. _In that moment, Teyla decided that she would get to know this man better; this fighter who treated her friendship, so easily given, as a precious gift beyond all recompense. _Such nightmares in his eyes when he thinks of the past ... _she hesitated for a moment, watching him walk away through the crowd._ He may not react well. Some memories should never be revisited. Still ... I will just have to be careful about it. _

Halling joined her at the railing, having left his son Jinto and his friend Wex to play somewhere nearby. "He interests you."

"Who?" Teyla feigned ignorance, but Halling had long been a close friend, having become something akin to a big brother and an uncle in one after her parents were taken by the Wraith. She could never get anything past him.

"Captain Potter, Teyla. I am not blind. Or deaf, for that matter. You like him."

"Yes." She admitted. "He came for us, considered our rescue as important as his own men, or so Doctor Weir told me."

"But you want to know more." _He is far too perceptive._

"Yes. He interests me. Now stop prying!" She smiled at him to show she wasn't really offended.

Halling laughed, the terror of their recent abduction of the Wraith forgotten. "You know our people, Teyla. They thrive on gossip – and you have ever stood alone. This will cause talk, to say the least."

"I know, I know. And I am resigned to being their entertainment - for the time being."

He grinned and turned to leave. "Well, I will watch you both with interest, Teyla. It should provide some ... amusement, as you say."

_Don't they have anything better to do? _Teyla fumed good-naturedly to herself as she returned to the party. _Of course they don't._

* * *

Wow, this was a LOT longer than I thought it would be – over twice the length of the previous chapter. This might turn into quite a long story if I keep going in this kind of detail. Please **review**, I want to know if I'm going into too _much_ detail, as well as anything else you might think – it all helps. Expect slow updates, I've got exams in the near future.

And yes, Harry's former wizarding heritage is the reason for his ATA strength and depth of awareness with the Jumpers. Magic will not form a major part of the story. The focus will still on SGA.

And also, yes I'm aware Teyla might not be aware of the 'Victorian' connotations of being 'a Lady,' (read that in a your poshest, camp-est aristocratic British accent, you'll see what I mean), as she's never been to Earth. But the opportunity for the slight innuendo joke was too good to pass up on, and will probably come up again, as a kind of in-joke between the two of them.

Edit 8-2-2013: Osprey body armour changed to 'Dragon Skin', a prototype Level III set of armour. I was made aware that Osprey was only issued in late 2006, and SGA is in 2004. I couldn't find out when Dragon Skin was invented, but the name was just too cool to pass up on.

* * *

TRIVIA

(1) I made Harry a USAF Captain – partly because that IS his equivalent rank, but also because there's no easy way to shorten 'Flight Lieutenant', and RAF tradition says that you don't just call them 'Lieutenant', (although 'Flight Lieuy' is a commonly used slang term). Captain is just easier to 'hear' people 'speaking' in dialogue when I'm writing. Plus, it's just cooler than the rather long-winded UK ranks (honestly, 'Group Captain'? – just use colonel and be done with it), and that's kind of what I'm going for – this is entertainment, after all. It's a minor detail – hope it doesn't annoy anyone.

(2) 160th Special Operations Aviation Squadron – an elite United States army helicopter unit that provides aviation support for special operations forces. Its missions include direct attack, infantry assault support and reconnaissance, and are usually conducted at night, at high speeds, low altitudes, and on short notice – ie. bloody dangerous - previous deployments include Mogadishu (Black Hawk Down, which should demonstrate exactly how dangerous). Their motto is _'Death Waits in the Night,' _or more officially, _'Night Stalker's Don't Quit,'_ if you want to be politically correct.

(3) If no-one had already noticed, the character of Sir Harold Pearce, Chief of Section D in MI-5 is lifted from the British TV drama 'Spooks,' known as 'MI-5' in the United States. I didn't watch the show much but came across it again when doing a little side research for this story, and decided to include him because he's awesome – and in the right agency.


	6. 5 - City of Wonders, Part 1

**Disclaimer**: I don't own anything.

**Credit** goes to Phoenix Catcher for letting me borrow some of the ideas behind his story, "Cast Between Worlds."

A/N – Edits to the last chapter – Got the structure of a Marine company wrong – logistics is done by a gunnery sergeant, not a lieutenant. Previous chapter has been altered to reflect this. I'm going to be making the Marine chain of command, responsibilities and equipment about as realistic as I can, within the inherent 'rule of cool' constraint that SGA's plotlines frequently utilise.

To various reviewers – no Harry isn't just going to be Sheppard. He's going to be much more 'in Atlantis,' partly due to tactical reasons but also because of his affinity with Ancient tech, which will be developed more - a lot more, I hope.

Smaller chapter this time – I have exams, and it's taken me long enough to write this stuff.

* * *

**Chapter 5 – City of Wonders, Part 1**

"_Be an example to your men, in your duty and in private life. Never spare yourself, and let the troops see that you don't in your endurance of fatigue and privation. Always be tactful and well-mannered and teach your subordinates to do the same. Avoid excessive sharpness or harshness of voice, which usually indicates the man who has shortcomings of his own to hide." _

_Field Marshall Erwin Rommel, The Desert Fox_

* * *

The next day, Harry and Sheppard put their heads together their new joint office, one level down from the Gate room. They had come up with a numbering system the day before – the combined Gate Room-Control Room level was 'Level 0', and from there each level down went up a number, a bit like the SGC in Cheyenne Mountain, while the hangar was just called exactly that – the Hangar, or the Jumper Bay.

The two air force officers were familiarising themselves with the structure and personnel of the Marine detachment on Atlantis, as well as what they knew about the city so far. Formally called a 'Special Operations Capable' rifle company, the usual command structure had been slightly altered. Major Sheppard was obviously the commanding officer (CO) with Harry as his Executive Officer (XO), handling day-to-day tasks and administration. Due to the fact Sheppard would also be commanding the primary offworld team, Harry would be staying on in the City unless specifically required offworld, lest they leave Atlantis without either of its two senior officers in a crisis.

Under them were the three rifle platoon and one weapons platoon commanders – Ford, Kagan, Hale and Morales respectively. The company staff were four senior NCOs with specific responsibilities: Bates on security; Stackhouse on training; Master Gunny Santorini on logistics; and Sergeant Major Saito as Company First Sergeant, the senior enlisted man for the detachment who served both as an experienced adviser with over fifteen years service but also as a link between the officers and their enlisted subordinates.

These last two men were a little unusual, as both Santorini and Saito were one rank higher than the norm for a company staff position; however the late Colonel Sumner had handpicked them, wanting the most experienced NCOs he could find to compensate for the fact the expedition would be cut off from all support indefinitely.

The floor below the Gate Room – Level 1 – had been appropriated by the Marines, who had set up temporary accommodation, an armoury, an impromptu pistol range and a small gym-dojo. It was a little crowded, but they were expecting to have more rooms to spread out into in the next few days. Harry and Sheppard's rooms – they had their own, CO's and XO's privilege – were separated by the office they were now in – a shared workspace for both of them as the commanders of the military contingent, while across the hall a larger room held some more desks for the other officers and NCOs who had command positions.

These two rooms were now the military's HQ in Atlantis, and although they weren't that busy yet, they surely would be. Another room that had been found to have an access console for the Ancient Database had been reserved for an intelligence/planning area, but wasn't being used yet since they were still locked out of the database until Dr McKay figured out how to access it from anywhere other than the control and hologram rooms.

Level 2 held the aforementioned hologram room, but was primarily dedicated to a large infirmary and a small communal space. Carson had set up shop and was now trying to figure out the Ancient medical equipment that lay recessed into the walls around each bed.

Level 3 was split – half to accommodation and half to the large kitchen-dining area. The next three levels below that were all accommodation, mostly single en-suite rooms but with some larger suites that had been given over to the six family units among the Athosians. The lowest level before the checkpoint held a collection of labs, already being used by the civilians, and a dormant secondary control room. Apparently that room would require some kind of code before taking control away from the primary room up by the gate – a code they didn't yet have.

"We've got a good crew." Harry commented, looking up from the personnel files he'd been reading on one of the expedition computer tablets. "Particularly the command group."

"Yep, that we do. Santorini and Saito between them very nearly have more years in service than an entire platoon. More than worth their weight in gold." Sheppard leaned back. "Still sure you don't want an offworld team slot?"

"Yes, sir, I'm sure. With my rather lethal skillset, I'm better used on call to rescue you whenever you get in trouble."

"So ... you'll have nothing to do then."

Harry just raised an eyebrow at his smart-arse superior officer. "Judging by how much 'trouble' SG-1 back on Earth managed to get into in just the first few months of Stargate operations, let alone the last eight years, why do you think it will be any different in this galaxy?"

"Why, my sparkling wit and charm, of course."

"Right, because everyone in our galaxy – and of course this one – knows about college football and Ferris wheels."

"You're never going to let me forget that, are you?"

"Err ... no. Sir." Harry added with a smirk.

Sheppard rolled his eyes. "I was just trying to open a dialogue."

"I'm sure it would have worked…eventually. I'm going to go hassle the Marines. Have fun, sir."

"Fine. Are you going to stop calling me sir, at any point? I'm not that big on formality, as you may have noticed."

"Maybe, major." Harry kept a straight face, with little difficulty. It was fun to have a boss who didn't mind being teased a bit. "Is major better than sir, sir?"

"Ah, get out of here." Sheppard waved at the door, going back to the tablet.

Harry grabbed his tac-vest and weapons as he left, moving somewhat stiffly because of his still-bound broken ribs. In the interests of solidarity with the Marines under his command, he'd switched to the military's Atlantis uniform, a charcoal grey jacket and trousers with black facings on the chest, and a black assault vest. He'd kept his personalised weapons though – P-90 with laser aiming module and now a holographic sight, silenced Colt 1911, and his swords, now strapped upright on his back with the grips just below each shoulder.

"See you later, sir." Harry headed out to the 'checkpoint' a few levels down, which Kagan's platoon were assembling at for a sweep of the tower's lower levels, and was joined Santorini as he exited his own office opposite. "Morning, Master Gunnery Sergeant." Harry paused. "Is there a nickname for your rank, Santorini? No disrespect _to_ that rank, it's just a bit of a mouthful."

Santorini, a tall, heavily built Italian-American from the Bronx, just chuckled. "Master Gunny or Master Guns to you officers, sir. Don't use it too often though sir, or the boys will think I won't mind being called that. I didn't work for twenty years at this so some greenhorn can get my rank wrong."

Harry grinned, "Got it." He'd already come to both respect and like the relatively easy-going senior NCO. Santorini was a career Force Recon marine, and he understood that having a ramrod up his arse wasn't going to make his men respect him – on the contrary, he understood that the soldiers sent to Pegasus were handpicked, best of the Corps, and trusted them to get the minor stuff right. This was so unlike Sumner's personality Harry had wondered how the two had ever got along, but the reason the Colonel had picked him had become clear in minutes – the man was competency incarnate.

Kagan and his three squads were waiting for them, geared up and ready to go. Harry waved the officer and squad leaders over. "We're playing leapfrog today, gentlemen. First squad takes the next level down, second the one below that, third the next. When you're done, radio it in to me or Santorini and move to clear the next floor that doesn't already have a team sweeping it. Also call in any critical finds and make a quick sketch map of each floor. We haven't been able to access full city schematics yet, so I want something I can give to the scientists so they can start studying stuff, while not getting lost." Harry grimaced. "The sooner they have something to do, the sooner they can stop complaining."

The Marines all had a good chuckle at his expression, having been on the receiving end of some of the more arrogant civilians' egos already. Some of the scientists seemed convinced that soldiers as a whole were just slightly more intelligent than apes, whose sole job was to fetch and carry for them. Harry was already fighting a strong desire to stab Dr Kavanagh, one of the physicists, just out of sheer frustration – and they'd only been here about seventy-two hours.

* * *

A couple of hours later, Santorini and Harry had settled into a routine. They waited in the area of the staircase on the lowest floor that had a team sweeping it, and gathered the sketches in from the squads that leapfrogged past them to the lower floor before following. This gave Santorini plenty of time to strike up a conversation with Harry in order to get the measure of their new XO – sure, Stackhouse and Markham had been pretty enthusiastic about the Captain during the rescue op, but the Master Gunnery Sergeant wanted to form his own opinion.

"Captain, yesterday you said the Taliban had a nickname for ya?"

"Yes, '_ahasifa ja'be_'." Harry glanced at the Marine, wondering if he knew the language. (1)

"Storm … Bringer. Nice. Very poetic, sir." The NCOIC grinned. "Why?"

"That's classified information, Master Gunnery Sergeant." Harry told him mock-seriously. "But in light of the fact we're three million light-years away from any Johnny Taliban who might find out; I don't think the Secret Intelligence Service will mind me breaking OPSEC to tell you." _Might as well, it'll help the Marines trust my command a bit more._

"That's mighty generous of you, sir."

"Isn't it just? Anyway, the Taliban's lower ranks had all these rumors floating around about a lone foreign soldier who had a penchant for showing up in the middle of thunderstorms, tearing the guts out of them then disappearing. Hence the nickname, Storm-Bringer."

"And that was actually you, or are you just having me on, sir?"

"No I'm not, that actually was me. Of course, it only happened a couple of times," _more than a couple, actually,_ "but the rumours persisted. The Taliban's ruling council put a bounty on my head – very flattering."

"How much?"

"One million Afghanis ... which because Afghanistan has a currency a bit like Zimbabwe's comes to about ... twenty thousand US dollars. Not quite as impressive as it seems."

Santorini looked at him. "Ever had anyone try and collect, I mean come after you specifically, sir?"

"Not really. SIS and Army Intel fed me a few tips about some mercs who were hired to do so, but not by the Taliban – still don't know who did that. One guy in ISAF HQ in Kandahar set me up for capture, but not to collect the bounty – he was an Islamic extremist, wasn't in it for the money."

"What happened to them – and him, sir?"

Harry grimaced. "Well, the mercs are dead. Very dead. That treasonous bastard in Kandahar is doing federal time in Leavenworth. If he ever gets out, he'd better hide a long way away though - in a different galaxy might work." Harry looked around theatrically. "Or maybe not."

Santorini laughed again. "Yes, well, at least not in this one, sir."

"You got that right, Master Guns."

* * *

Sheppard joined them a few hours later as part of their combined plan for integrating into the unit and getting on the Marines' good side. Sheppard and Harry both fully understood the mantra 'Respect is Earned, Not Demanded' - it is hammered into the cadets of every military academy on the planet worth attending, and they intended to win the Marines over as fast as possible. This far from home, their very survival might be threatened if they did not. True trust, especially from elite soldiers did not come easily, but general awe of Harry's command presence during the rescue op had filtered down from the soldiers who had taken part or been rescued. These included several squad leaders as well as Bates and Stackhouse, two of the most senior NCO's in the company, and their word carried a lot of weight.

The jury was still out on Major Sheppard, as the late Colonel Sumner had clearly not approved of the man, and this had made an impression on his men. However, John Sheppard wasn't a man to let anything get him down, and since he was basically a thoroughly likeable guy anyway, the Marines were coming around steadily. The story about Harry that he had relayed to the Colonel on Athos had also made its way around the Marines from those who had overheard, and Sheppard's actions in it – going back for a comrade left behind – also won him points, however much he had downplayed his own part.

It took all day, but the Central Tower was now secured and considered safe for further exploration – all seventy floors of it. Sheppard had already had Hale's platoon on running escorts for groups of scientists in the upper part that had been declared cleared.

"What fun." Santorini grumbled as they began climbing all the way back to the top.

"What, I thought you Devil Dogs were tough, Master Gunnery Sergeant," Sheppard grinned, "is climbing a seventy story skyscraper every day not appealing to you?"

"Surprisingly sir, no, not particularly." _Actually, that brings up a very good point._

"If the Ancients were so advanced, I find it hard to believe that they spent their entire time hiking up and down towers to get someplace." Harry gestured at the staircase they were still climbing, at the back of Kagan's platoon. "I mean, look at these stairs. Compared to the rest of the architecture and visual style of the tower, they're pretty bare-bones, not ornamental or decorated at all." They were unadorned metal, with a kind of corrugated grille for the steps rather like on an Earth fire escape, and very unlike the deep red and bronze style of the rest of the tower.

"Hmmm. Good point. Ask McKay if he can find anything in the Ancient Database when we get up there, it'll probably take him a while. I don't fancy spending half the day climbing up and down, although it will make us all very fit."

"You are a chopper pilot, sir, no wonder you're out of shape."

"Hey, don't push your luck, Captain."

"Wouldn't dream of it, sir. Wouldn't dream of it."

* * *

It took almost an hour to climb back up. Sheppard and Harry stopped to chat to the Marines on guard duty at the Level 8 checkpoint. Staff Sergeant Bates, in charge of security, had wanted the spot guarded 24/7 and Harry had acquiesced to his request to convert the nearest room into a guardhouse, with bunks for a squad and a small secondary armoury. He'd also gone a little trigger happy and had them set up a heavy-calibre machine gun position facing down the stairs – just in case. Although Harry hadn't had too much trouble with the Wraith in the Hive, he'd had the element of surprise and there hadn't been that many of them. They had no idea if the equipment and tactics the 'space vampires' had used there was typical of the rest – if the Wraith deployed in heavy armour for example, they'd need bigger guns than the P-90s to put them down.

"How much of the city do you think we can keep secure?" Sheppard asked as they continued further up.

"Hmmm…this tower, and the ones around it for certain. The thing is, the primary threat is external as far as we know. The Wraith apparently don't know where Atlantis is, and as long as we keep the gate secure we'll be fine. From the city itself, the danger comes from any devices or technology we don't understand that might be accidentally activated, so our security primarily depends on the scientists acting like adults and not twelve-year olds with a new gadget."

"Good luck with that."

"Tell me about it." Harry rolled his eyes. "The only one I'd trust with that right now is Zelenka, who seems far more level headed than any of the others. Have you given any thought to how we could use the Athosians?"

"Uh ... no. Why?"

"Well, they're here, we're giving them food and shelter, and they don't have any of their usual activities – hunting, farming, etc., so they'll be pretty bored very soon. We might as well ask some of the adults if they want to help out exploring the city; hell, maybe start training on weapons – they have as much reason to shoot the Wraith as we do. After all, we're going to ask Teyla for introductions to other planets in the galaxy, why not put Athosian 'native guides' so to speak on the other exploration teams?"

"That'd be good."

"It also avoids offending the Athosians by basically staying 'stay put, we don't trust you yet' or 'stay put, you're kind of useless to us,' neither of which is true, I hope." Harry glanced at Sheppard to check.

"Well, Bates does have concerns ..."

"I know, and I told him that even the slightest appearance of mistrust of the Athosians will be totally counter-productive, especially this early on, and without even the smallest piece of evidence. We can't afford to make more enemies now – the Wraith are already going to be hard enough as it is."

"Okay. You mind taking point with that? With Teyla and Halling I mean, as liaison. You were getting along pretty well back on Athos before the attack, have you talked much since?"

"A little, at the party yesterday. I'll go … open a dialogue, shall I?" Harry teased as they reached Level 1, the military floor.

Sheppard rolled his eyes. "Again with that. Yes, go get cosy with Teyla."

_You know, I wouldn't mind doing that._

"Is that an order, sir?" Harry asked him, with a perfectly straight face.

Sheppard's own thoughts seem to just be catching up the mild accidental innuendo. "Uh ... you know what I mean."

Harry laughed as he split off at the landing, "Do I? I'll go find Teyla. Catch you later, boss."

"Well, at least you're not calling me Sir any more!" Sheppard called out after him.

* * *

Harry didn't catch up to Teyla until dinner a while later. Although it was still pretty basic fare, the small kitchen staff – most of whom had other roles – had gotten set up in the dining area on Level 3 very quickly. Carrying his tray, Harry spied an open space opposite Teyla where she sat in amongst a group of Athosians, Halling by her side. Catching her eye, he raised an eyebrow at the opening, a silent question to which she responded with a nod and a smile.

The big guy, Halling, seemed to find this mildly amusing for some reason.

"_Maasa el'khair,_ Teyla, Halling," Harry said, setting his food down.

"And that means…"

"Good evening." Harry sat down. "Had a good day?"

"Yes, indeed. To walk in the City of the Ancestors is not an experience I ever expected to have. It is both beautiful, and fascinating."_ You can say that again._

"Yes it is, although the lustre is somewhat worn off after climbing down seventy stories, and then up again." His jesting tone and slight smile reassured the other Athosians listening he meant no disrespect to their beliefs.

"So this tower has been searched?"

"Yes, although we'll still have guards go out with the science teams tomorrow, just in case of any emergencies. The scientists will almost certainly be heedless of the potential dangers of this place. The Ancestors," Harry deliberately chose to use the Athosian name, "were very advanced people, and there will be many things we will not understand, at least at first. I'd rather the good doctors didn't kill themselves or potentially the rest of us by being too eager." This got some smiles – the childlike enthusiasm of many the civilian staff was clear to all, at being essentially allowed to run wild in the most advanced city of what was quite possibly the most advanced civilisation ever. Even the Asgard, in the million years since their allies had left the Milky Way, had still not managed to equal some of their technological feats.

Having covered his side of things, Harry reversed the conversation back to the Athosians. He did want to know how they were doing, but was also aware he was building goodwill simply by being interested. _People like to be remembered, and needed. _

"Are you folks settling in all right?"

"Yes, although we will need more space if we are to stay here for much longer."

"Ah yes, well now that we've cleared the tower we can start spreading out I should think." Harry pulled out the sketch maps, which he'd put into the right order and stapled together in the office before coming down. "Let's see ... yeah, got some accommodation areas in the lower areas ... mostly single rooms here. Some larger apartments further down on Level 20 ..." Harry looked up. "Well, I'll pass the request along to Dr Grodin, who's handing the accommodation details for Dr Weir. I'm sure we'll find more space outside the main tower once we start pushing out more too; this is a city, it's hardly likely to be all laboratories."

"Thank you, Captain."

"I also wanted to ask if there were any Athosians who wanted to join our offworld exploration teams –"

"– I'll go!" Jinto interrupted. Halling's son was sitting next to him, two places to Teyla's right.

"Err ... points to Jinto for enthusiasm, but let's make that _adult_ Athosians, shall we?" Harry grinned at the boy, who was nearly bouncing in his seat. The other members of the clan watching relaxed, and joined in the laughter, reassured that this rather intimidating looking Earther, with his prominent scars and piercing green eyes was not as harsh as his appearance.

"Major Sheppard will be commanding the first team, and I'm pretty sure he's going to ask for you to join him, Teyla."

"Well…" Teyla hesitated, looking around and Harry's respect for this woman kicked up a few notches. Clearly her first instinct was to think of her people, rather than herself. "Normally, I would say no, but since we seem to be taking up residence here, I suppose there is little for me to do once we have settled in."

"Well, he hasn't asked yet, so you have some time to think about it."

"Thank you, Captain. Or … _shokran,_ yes?" Teyla said, lifting an eyebrow at him.

Harry's broad grin cemented the listening Athosians' also upwardly-revised opinion of him, as well as giving all of them even more reasons to gossip about both him and Teyla, although Harry didn't know that. "_Afwan, _Teyla. You're welcome." He looked around. "Would anybody else be interested? Of course, this isn't conscription or anything; we don't expect you to leave your families and lives behind if you don't want to. But the galaxy's a big place, and there are sure to be many interesting and wonderful things to see or experience out there."

He got a few nods, as expected. The Athosians seemed to be a very outward-looking group, very aware of the galaxy as a whole that could be accessed through the Stargate, rather than ignoring the potential gains entirely which many cultures seemed to do.

"Great. For those volunteering, we'd like to train you on our weapons, and probably have you working as part of a specific team. Our reconnaissance teams are rarely more than four people, and so they not only have to be capable of defending themselves but also tend to form very cohesive units, almost like families, but with each person bringing their own talents to the table. Back on Earth, the first and most successful team was called SG-1; it consisted of a soldier, a scientist, a language expert and an alien warrior who acted as a cultural advisor, so to speak. The team consisted of the same four members, with only one temporary change, for seven years or so, and have saved our world against aggressors time after time, and proved repeatedly that small teams can get the job done every efficiently."

"Would that be our role, Captain?" Teyla asked. "Cultural advisor?"

"At the moment, yes. This is a preliminary plan, and may change. We have a saying in our military – 'no plan survives contact with the enemy.' If the Wraith actively pursue our exploration teams, we'll have to be much more careful, and go out more heavily armed. However, we don't anticipate them being able to do that – the galaxy is a big place, after all. But at first, yes, we would appreciate it if the Athosians were to introduce us to your offworld friends and trading partners, so we can begin relations with them on a more friendly footing. The food supplies we brought won't last forever, and we don't know when we might be able to contact Earth or the other way around. Most of all, we need information about the Wraith – up-to-date intelligence on their movements, strengths, that kind of thing. If we're to take the fight to them, we have to know where they are, and they _cannot_ learn where we are, because through Atlantis, they can reach Earth, and that is not an option for us."

"But what if you can't beat them?" the speaker was a younger Athosian; one he was fairly sure was called Koren.

Harry kept his voice level, but firm when answering. _They're mostly farmers, not soldiers. They're used to the idea they might have to sacrifice for their family or tribe, but being told to step up and defend the galaxy is a rather different matter._

"There are seven billion humans on Earth alone, and many, many more on the other worlds of our home galaxy. This city is the gateway to that, and it must be held, even at the cost of our own lives. We will fight to the last man and the last bullet, and then we'll use knives, and then fists and teeth. Losing is not an option."

"Strong words, Captain." Teyla was looking at him, but speaking mostly for her people's benefit. "And wise ones."

"Thank you, Teyla. I try. But it won't come to that. The SG teams back on Earth had a habit of pulling miraculous solutions out of thin air even when the situation was incredibly dire. We have some of the brightest technical and scientific minds from our entire planet here, so I'm sure they'll be more than up to the task."

* * *

Teyla was happy to see the Captain again, as he'd left their conversation the night before on a rather mysterious note. However, she was also aware of Halling's quiet but amused interest in their conversation, and that the other Athosians were terrible gossips and so she was determined not to give them any ammunition if at all possible. Keeping the conversation work related seemed the best way to go – but then she just had to go and use one of the 'Arabic' words he'd spoken last night.

_Spirits, that smile. It's like he's a different person, and he's probably made half the women on the table crush on him like teenagers – including me, spirits help me. The scars and worries seem to fade away; he looked like ... a young man, or at least a younger one ... thinking of which, he very carefully didn't tell me his age last night ... hmm ..._

She was very impressed at his leadership skills. While appearing to address her, he was actually speaking to her people – whom he had never met, or had any real reason to bother with. He astutely addressed and assuaged their fears, both that they might be marginalized in this new and strange home, as well as the ever-present threat of the Wraith. He talked about how they could help, if they wanted to. He clearly showed that the Expedition leadership were thinking ahead, trying to deal with long-term problems like food supply before they became problems at all, and that they had a clearly defined set of goals for the immediate – make friends, trade, gather information to fight the Wraith. At the same time, he didn't give out any real details or time-frames. Teyla had already realized the Earth personnel were used to working in strictest security – especially the soldiers – and she could hardly expect them to trust everyone with their strategy.

For the moment, she also realized she was in that category, but Teyla intended to change that. She had always been prepared to fight the Wraith defensively, to protect her fellow Athosians, but had accepted that against the overwhelming superiority of their enemies, that wouldn't amount to much. Now, she was in the company of people who could not only have a chance to negate that technological advantage, but out-think and out-manoeuvre the Wraith within just a day or two of arriving in the Pegasus Galaxy, as they called it.

She had never encountered a group brave or suicidal enough to mount a rescue operation right into the depths of a Wraith Hive – or skilful enough to get out without being massacred. Now, with these people and this city's technology behind them, she felt as if there was a chance the Wraith could be stopped, if not defeated, and she wanted to be a part of that. The Wraith had been their bane for so long, who had taken her entire family, and so many others. Now, she could fight back.

Beside her, Halling seemed to be aware of at least the first part of her internal monologue, and was having a discreet chuckle at her expense. _He knows me far too well, and no doubt he'll pass this along as further fodder for the gossips. _Putting her surrogate big brother out of her thoughts, she focused on the conversation again in time to reinforce the Warrior's message.

"Strong words, Captain. And wise ones." _Would anybody notice if I elbowed Halling in the stomach, I wonder?_

After Captain Potter stood to leave, she tracked him across the room as subtly as she could. Something had been knocking at her all through the conversation, as if she had forgotten something ...

_Oh of course, the way he walks. Light on his feet, always balanced even when weighed down in armour. I wonder if he would spar with me ... and who would win._

With this thought, a contemplative expression spread across her face, followed quickly by a sly smile. _He'll be in for a shock ... I hope. _Teyla had always been competitive when it came to the _Bantos_ fighting discipline her people practised.

Once again, much like the night before, she wasn't able to slip anything past Halling.

_Damn it._

"Thinking about introducing him to your little sticks, Teyla? Or are you just going to knock him over the head and drag him back to your room?"

_Oooh, low blow._

When faced with an uncomfortable question, deny, deny and deny again.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Teyla informed him with an innocent expression – too innocent by far.

The tall Athosian just laughed at her. "Yes, I'm sure. Now go and catch up to him, _parum sororis_." (2)

* * *

"Captain Potter."

A voice interrupted Harry's thoughts as he approached the stairs on Level 3, returning to his rooms. Turning, he found Teyla catching up to him. She was dressed in what appeared to be her standard manner of dress – a laced-up blue sleeveless top made of some type of pleated fabric, grey-blue trousers and brown suede boots up to mid-calf.

"Teyla. Something else?"

"Perhaps. Do you fight with your hands as well as weapons?"

Harry blinked, and then worked out what she meant. "I do, if you mean hand-to-hand combat. Are you looking for lessons?"

Teyla's eyes narrowed, one eyebrow raised. "No, I do not believe I am." Harry didn't find it too difficult to interpret _that _look and then mentally chided himself for making stupid assumptions.

_Oh. Crap. Now she's going to be rather ... motivated to kick my arse around the dojo._

"Ah ... I see. _Aasifa_, Teyla. My apologies, I should know better than to underestimate you." He gave a little formal bow in her direction. "When would be a good time?"

"Well, you're on duty all day, and besides, we don't want a crowd now, would we? So, in the early morning?"

"Certainly. Oh-five-thirty, in the Marine gym on Level 1?"

"I will see you there, Captain." Teyla returned his small bow. "I have not had an equal sparring partner since my mentor grew too old to fight." She smirked, knowing she was upping the stakes just by implying no one had been able to defeat her.

"Is that so? Well now, we can't have a potential team member getting out of shape now, can we? _Ela al'lekaa, alz'eyma _Teyla."

"Not so hasty." Teyla said as he turned to leave again. "And what does that second part mean?" she added with a slight smile, ever curious. "I remember the first part, 'I'll see you soon.'"

"'_alz'eyma'_ is Leader, or Chief. Walk with me?" Harry gestured up the corridor, and Teyla joined him on his left as they walked. "And the other thing?"

"A forfeit."

"Ah-ha." Harry regarded her with a straight face, but she could tell he was interested. "And what might the Lady desire in return for her unlikely victory?"

She hit him lightly on the arm, "For your impudence."

Harry smirked. "Lot of that going around these days, particularly in the command office. Major Sheppard is quite exasperated with me, I'm sure."

"Why so?"

"Possibly because I keep making jokes about his 'college football and Ferris wheels' attempt at diplomacy back on your planet."

Teyla laughed, the sound bright and musical in the hard, angular architecture of the hallway. "I must agree, it wasn't the best opening ploy for trade I've ever heard."

"Which is what I keep telling him. Anyway, the forfeit?" Harry cocked his head to one side and looked at her narrowly. "I'm not going to enjoy this, am I?"

"My desire, as you put it, is a few answers, to a few questions. Shall we say an hour, where I can ask you any question and you must answer – no dissembling, no dodging the question? As you seem to often do?"

"Ah, you noticed. Accepted, I suppose." He raised a finger. "So long as they don't conflict with any secrets I have been sworn to keep by my government."

"Very well. And yours?"

"Hmm. Well, as a knight to your lady, I believe I'm _supposed_ to ask for a kiss." Harry chuckled at her half-taken aback, half-scandalized expression. "However ... if I win ... I would make it two way. You get half an hour, and I get half an hour to ask you. Deal?"

Teyla looked surprised. "Certainly. Although I can hardly think what you might ask me."

"Teyla, we're in a different galaxy. Adapt and survive, or perish. I want to know about the Athosians, about other cultures, that kind of thing."

"Oh. Of course. Tomorrow at five thirty, then."

"See you then. _Ela al'lekaa._" Harry winked and went on his way. "May the best fighter win!" he called out as he disappeared up the stairs.

* * *

Apologies to any Arabic speakers, which I'm not - I'm completely reliant on the internet for transliteration for the Arabic pronunciation into the Latin alphabet, which is much harder than it seems. If you want to hear what it actually sounds like, Google Translate has a nifty 'computer voice' thing which you can use. I'm a big fan of using endearments or catchphrases from other languages in English writing. I've always thought such words sound so much more genuine – by which I mean less trite or cliché – and more interesting than repeated uses of 'honey' or 'darling' – see what I mean?

For 'Old Athosian', the Stargate wiki says the languages of the Athosians are English (boring) or Ancient (which is apparently like Latin). So Athosian phrases or slang will be bastardized Latin translations. The intent is to lend some authenticity to the Athosian culture, which I'll be pretty much making up as I go along really, since the show didn't cover all much of it. This particular phrase is 'little sister.'


	7. 6 - City of Wonders, Part 2

**Disclaimer**: I don't own anything.

**Credit** goes to Phoenix Catcher for letting me borrow some of the ideas behind his story, "Cast Between Worlds," found on this site.

* * *

Exams are over! And so, to quote the ex-Governator of California, 'I'm back!' Sorry this took a while, RL is bloody hectic at the moment, and this chapter kept getting longer and longer until I found a place that made a good cut off point.

A/N 1: I'm now going to include a small dictionary of the phonetic Arabic I use in the story at the bottom of each chapter – just so you know.

A/N 2: As I said last chapter and will repeat here, I'm aiming for a more detailed narrative of Atlantis than the show. I'm focusing more on the minutiae – Sheppard and co will be off having fun as per the episodes, and Harry will take part whenever some superior firepower is needed (*cough*the Genii*cough*, if you catch my drift.) However, the life of a soldier isn't all Michael Bay-style explosions and battles – there's a lot that happens behind the scenes of a military organisation and operations that make it all happen, and that is part of what I'm trying to capture here. This chapter is the 'setting up' period of the Expedition – initial explorations, training, administration, then the episode "Hide and Seek".

**WARNING for language**: soldiers swear – usually a lot, and Marines even more. Deal with it.

* * *

**Chapter 5 – City of Wonders, Part 2**

"_The life of a soldier consists of long periods of boredom punctuated by short moments of extreme terror.' _

_Various sources_

* * *

Tonight, the dreams came back. Harry wasn't an emotionless robot, some heartless sociopath although he often had to become one on missions. He was a soldier, and when he was on a mission, that mission came first. His relentless, stubborn attitude was exactly why the British government kept him on the payroll - well, that and a few other _special_ talents.

He had long ago come to terms with the violence he visited upon his foes, but it still affected him. He'd seen things, hell he'd done things, committed acts of mass destruction and murder that would have made even Voldemort laugh aloud in giddy delight. He knew what some people thought of him, those with the 'need to know' in the government and in the NATO intelligence community, all REMFs* and paper-pushers who had only seen his file and judged him a monster for the things he'd had to do; but they didn't know him, didn't know what drove him, what demons pushed him to the limit of human endurance, through the rain and snow, heat and cold, bullets and blood. Usually, he kept those demons bottled up until the mission was over and he was home - and as soon as he was, as soon as he let down his guard and dropped out of 'mission mode,' his subconscious always unloaded for one or two horrific nights of relived pain, death and guilt. Apparently, his subconscious had now decided Atlantis was 'safe,' and was unloading - something that conscious Harry would have distinctly disagreed with.

Harry wrenched himself out of the dream, but didn't jerk awake. That kind of thing could have gotten him killed out in the badlands, if the enemy were nearby. He awoke as he had trained himself to, coming to full alertness instantly and without moving. Besides, with a couple of broken ribs the last thing he wanted to do was move erratically. He slept in combat fatigues and a T-shirt, zip-up boots ready by the side of the bed for emergencies. The T-shirt was to cover the various scars and scrapes that marked his body and the large tattoo across his shoulders – he wasn't ashamed of them, but they encouraged people, even strangers, to ask distinctly personal questions that he'd rather not answer.

The slightly glowing hands of his wristwatch indicated he still had an hour before sparring with Teyla. _That's going to be interesting._ _Oh well, no point lying around, it's a brand new day ... in a whole different galaxy ... heh, that's a new one._

Apparently, since Humans were, biologically speaking, basically downgraded Ancients, many aspects of the city were fundamentally similar and suitable for them both – normal dimensions of doors and ceilings, ablutions facilities, cooking equipment, that sort of thing, and the everyday stuff didn't require the Ancient gene to activate or use.

His room was on the Marine level, and would probably stay there for the time being even though three of the other four platoons would move out down into the lower accommodation areas in a few days time. Sheppard, Harry, the senior NCO's and one of Ford's squads would stay in the upper portion's 'headquarters' level, close to the armoury and Stargate Operations so as to be handy to for emergencies.

The room itself was about the same as the one he'd had at Cranwell and the Hereford Mess, a six by five metre room with a set of fairly standard humanoid furnishings – bed, a two-person sofa and low table in the corner, a closet and shelving units, chair and desk, that kind of thing. Although some of the other rooms they'd checked lower down were outfitted in bare-bones, almost sterile chrome metal furniture, his and the other rooms on this level were done in some kind of offworld hardwood, with an incredibly intricate swirling grain pattern of light and dark rings that was a work of art in itself.

A whole segment of one wall, a glass panel about two metres wide opened vertically to reveal a small balcony about two by two metres. It wasn't massive, but it was a welcome relief from the constant interior. Harry didn't exactly suffer really bad claustrophobia, but it did get to him eventually – a legacy of the Dursley's abuse, according to his psych reports. When it did, all he had to deal with was a growing urge to get outside, which was fairly easy to suppress if required.

Harry stood under the shower-head for longer than usual, unashamedly luxuriating in the hot spray. As he'd told the Marines, his time in Afghanistan had been extensive, with very few visits home, and most of his downtime – and quite a bit of that had been recuperating from injuries – had been spent at various bases in the country itself – Kandahar AFB or Camp BASTION, the main British outpost in Helmand province. Decent showers had been few and far between, even in the camps themselves. He'd been out there for ten months out of twelve usually, far more than any other soldier he knew of.

_Damned miracle I haven't gone insane from combat fatigue or shell-shock; although, frankly, there's nobody who knows me well enough to say either way ..._

Finished with his routine, he changed into workout kit and picked up a long bag that held a variety of practice weapons – he'd brought several of each type, so he could teach or train with other fighters. He was early for the session but since he knew that sleep was now unlikely, Harry settled down to meditate on the practise mats in the gym. Facing away from the door so no one could see his eyes, he 'activated' his 'stormy senses,' as some punster in D Squadron had called them even before the Battle of Hogwarts, and relaxed into the trance. The purpose of the exercise was to 'find his centre' as Hetty, his first teacher had put it; to stabilise his emotions so that his powers didn't lash out when he was feeling angry or depressed.

However, although that had been the original reason, Harry also used the meditation to find equilibrium in everyday life as well – although his version of 'everyday life' was somewhat different to most people. He used it to sort though and discard the chaff, to organise himself for the day or days ahead, to identify and analyse his own gut feelings or misgivings about operations, people or other events in his life.

Half an hour later, at about 0520 he 'felt' someone climbing the stairs from the lower levels. He couldn't 'see' them as such, but in his present state he was far more intimately connected to the very molecules of the air itself than his usual 'monitoring' state. He could 'see' a rough 3-D outline of the approaching person by way of the molecules they displaced by their passage, and so he could tell the visitor was both probably female and about Teyla's height. _  
_

* * *

Teyla paused in the doorway, not particularly surprised to see the Warrior there early. She studied her competition for a moment, noting powerful muscles clearly visible under the black sleeveless top he wore, and yet another scar high on his right bicep, this one short, thicker and more prominent than the others. _I wonder where that one came from_.

"Good morning, Captain."

"Hi Teyla. Practice weapons are in the bag." He waved one hand at the black bag in the corner. "And call me Harry." As he rose to his feet, she noticed there was a certain amount of stiffness to his movements, and she raised an eyebrow at him.

"Are you injured?"

He grimaced slightly. "I might have a few cracked ribs. Nothing too serious."

"Oh no, I am not going to take the blame from Doctor Beckett for making it worse." Teyla shook her head. "That man is terrifying."

Captain Potter started to laugh, and then grimaced again, apparently in pain from the broken bones. "Yeah, so you noticed that already. Most medics seem to be like that."

"Besides, it wouldn't be an honest victory." Teyla smirked at his aggrieved expression, inviting retaliation.

"Just wait until we spar, _alz'eyma _Emmagan. I'll show you an honest victory," he growled playfully.

"If it makes you feel better, Captain. I _was_ curious about something however ... a doctor is a healer, but why is Rodney McKay also a Doctor?"

"Ah, that's because it's also a kind of catch-all academic title back on Earth, for people who are highly qualified in their scientific fields, not specifically for medicine."

"Oh, I see. So, if we aren't going to spar…" Teyla cocked her head to one side, "do you concede my forfeit?"

"Like hell! You're going to have to try harder than that, Teyla."

"All right. I suppose we'll just have to find something else to do ... like you answering my questions?"

"Okay, fine, since I know you won't give up. I'm not forfeiting, just in case you think so. But we'll do it my way, each with one question in turn."

Teyla grinned, triumphant. _That will do._ "Very well. You first."

"Oh so generous, Teyla. Hmm ..." He moved to sit one a weight bench near the side of the mats, and waved for her to sit on another. "Let's start with your tribe. I remember you once said that '_we move our hunting camps around._' Are there other groups of Athosians, and are they organised in any way?"

Teyla took a seat, sitting cross-legged on the next bench along, a metre or so away. "Yes, there are now thirteen different clans who call themselves 'Athosians' in this galaxy. We were the first, the 'Primas', the mother tribe, if you will. Although we have moved offworld to avoid the Wraith, the planet where you encountered us is our traditional homeworld, hence the carvings and the ruined city. The other clans live on various other worlds, and use the Stargates to move between empty but liveable planets to avoid the Wraith. I have a fairly good idea of where the others might be as of a few weeks ago, and would like to contact them as soon as possible. They will soon move as a precaution when news of the Wraith's awakening reaches them."

"Shouldn't be a problem with that."

"Thank you. My turn?"

"It is."

_He seems braced for something, can't imagine what ..._

"Since you have dodged the question before, do you mind if I ask how old you are?"

The Warrior winced. _Ah ... not the best topic to choose then. _But he answered anyway.

"I'm twenty three. Twenty four at the end of this month."

_Spirits!_ _So young,_ _I thought he was at least thirty! _"Does Earth have the same length years as we do?"

"That's two questions …" She just gave him a look. _Not going to work, Captain. _"Pretty much. Most inhabited worlds do, being in the life belt, around similar age stars, so it does has roughly the same orbital length."

Teyla wasn't listening very closely, thoughts running wild with astonishment. _He's four years younger than me. About the same age as Lieutenant Ford, who is a fresh-faced novice compared to the Warrior. _

She looked up again to find him watching her with a small smile. "Surprised, Teyla?"

"Yes." Teyla had never had a problem being honest, even if it wasn't the most tactful thing to be. "But with anyone else, I would find it hard to credit."

"Why is that? Why would you trust my word?" He gestured to the scars that marred his features. "I'm hardly a friendly-looking person."

"You came for us." A simple answer. "I was told by several of my people how you very specifically pointed out to the Marines that it was not just their people missing, but us also, despite having only known us for a matter of hours. You treat us as valued friends and allies; more importantly, you have not lied to us, and have not treated us as interlopers or savages, as I have been occasionally perceived as by other peoples through the Stargate."

"_Shokran,_ Teyla. And I never will." Their eyes met, green into brown. _Another promise made._

* * *

Harry had been expecting more personal questions, and the age thing had come up before, but what really startled him was the honest truth of Teyla's answer.

Trust was a distinctly rare commodity in his line of work. Harry wasn't exactly a spy, but he was the combat version of one – an operative or 'ISTAR asset' in British military parlance, an acronym meaning '**I**ntelligence, **S**urveillance, **T**arget **A**cquisition and **R**econnaissance'. He was fairly used to being screwed over by now – no one who spends much time in the military expects everything to go as planned, and Special Forces less than most. Bad intel, greedy local informants, treacherous tribal chiefs, over-ambitious superior officers willing to throw you to the wolves for their own careers; it didn't matter which – at some point or other every operative eventually got burned by betrayal, (although that last one was more of an American problem, since the British spec ops community was a small, tight-knit bunch - the SAS only numbered about five hundred men at peak strength, so word got around quickly of anything suspicious.)

However, on the other hand Harry didn't exactly project 'Trust Me' vibes. He was a heavily scarred, scary looking son of a bitch who was usually bulked out in heavy armour and festooned with numerous pieces of lethal weaponry and explosive ordnance. Having someone just state, flat out to his face that they trusted him, and _absolutely mean every word they said_ was a rather pleasant change. And for Teyla, he decided he could and would reciprocate as much as he could. Even if he'd only known her for a few days, he was not going to let her trust down.

"Next question?"

"I think it's your turn."

"Indeed. Well, since I'm too polite to ask a lady _her _age …" Harry smiled as Teyla blushed slightly, apparently mildly embarrassed she'd gone straight for the kill on that one. "How did you end up leading your tribe?"

"Well … my parents were the clan leaders when I was born. That is often our way, to have a bonded couple as the leaders." Harry kept his silence, although he assumed bonded meant something parallel to married. "They were … taken, by the Wraith, when I was just a child." She drew a deep breath, clearly still not entirely over it.

* * *

"I'm sorry to hear that, Teyla." _That kind tone is rather at odds with his appearance, as he alluded to earlier. Every time I speak to this man I find new depths._

"Thank you, Captain."

"Harry." He corrected with a smile, which Teyla returned.

"After they were gone," she continued, "The whole tribe pretty much became my family. They all looked out for me, and taught me. I picked up fighting from Halling's mother, Charin, for example. Hunting, tracking, and various other crafts I learned from those families in the village who specialised in such things; our history and traditions; trade with other peoples, that kind of thing."

"They trained you to be a leader."

"Yes, without even realising it. By the time I was twenty or so, I had picked up the basics of every craft we practised and was on good terms with all our main trade contacts and the other clans. I knew every man, woman and child in the tribe, had helped raise most of the kids, played with them. When the previous leaders, one of whom was Charin, prepared to step down, I was rather surprised to find my name suggested in their place very nearly unanimously, despite not being bonded." Teyla shrugged, looking rather sheepish. "I am still not entirely sure how it happened, but I still say Halling had something to do with it."

"Why Halling?"

"I mostly lived with Charin – especially once I started learning _Bantos_, which took a long time – and Halling was a few years older than me, and became my brother in all but blood." She refocused on Harry. "What about your parents?"

The Warrior – _Harry_, she corrected herself – looked away. "My parents ... I never knew them. They were murdered when I was only just over a year old."

"Oh ... I'm sorry, Harry."

He flashed her a quick smile. "No need Teyla, you didn't kill them."

Teyla considered asking who did, but dismissed the idea. She didn't want to stir up bad memories for the sake of her curiosity. Harry spoke before she could come up with anything though – and it was his turn.

"What kind of style is _Bantos_?"

"Style?"

"Well, on Earth, there are a great many varieties of fighting techniques, collectively referred to as martial arts. Different regions tend to have distinctive styles – Japanese, Chinese, Filipino, various others – that emphasise particular approaches to fighting, whether it be defensive, use of weapons, that kind of thing. How does _Bantos_ work?"

"Well ... in that way, I suppose _Bantos _emphasises improvisation and economy of movement. Using anything to hand to fight back against many enemies as quickly and effectively as possible. Traditional weapons are two _clava bantos_ – fighting sticks, I suppose you would call them, about this long," Teyla held her hands out about two feet apart.

_The Captain has an odd gleam in his eye ..._

* * *

"Reeeallly…" Harry drew the word out, barely containing his excitement.

_I travel to a different galaxy, and the first person I meet just _happens _to practice something a bit like Eskrima. Fate, you aren't as much of a bitch as I thought._

He got up and moved to the weapons bag he'd brought up, and rummaged around for a few seconds. "A bit like these?" He held up a pair of _yantok_, also referred to as _rattan _batons, after the tough, cheap vine the short staffs were made out of. Teyla's eyes lit up, and he tossed one to her as he came back to his seat, bringing the bag with him.

"Yes … not dissimilar, although these are somewhat lighter than the ones I am used to. You use these?"

"Yes. These are _rattan _sticks, or _yantok_ if you're feeling technical. They're training weapons for the style I have been learning since I was sixteen, which is called _Eskrima_."

"Then it seems my victory is not quite as assured as I thought it might be."

"I don't know," Harry demurred, "I'm hardly a Grand Master or anything. You might beat me yet."

"What else do you have in there?"

Harry lifted the bag onto the bench beside him to rummage some more. "Well, I've got practice fighting knives and daggers of various types, like _karambits_," he withdrew a short, wickedly curved weapon, but Teyla noticed it was clearly not a real blade. "These are practise weapons made out of foam or wood to avoid injury. I've also got _tantos, sais_ and some longer weapons, _katanas _and collapsible _bo _staffs_, _as well." He pulled each out as he named them, laying them on the bench. "I thought I might as well bring them if we were going to be stuck here for a while, so I'll probably train some of the Marines and civilians if they want to. I have a few real versions of the smaller ones locked up in the armoury."

"That is ... quite a collection." Teyla reached out, ran a hand along one of the _katanas_. "_Bantos_ is … not aggressive, but defensive. It was created for one trained person to be able to protect others against many attackers, and does not have any weapons apart from the staves in it. We have not had the ability to smelt metal of a high enough quality." She looked up, and caught his eye. "Is Earth a violent culture? I mean," her gesture took in the line of weapons on the bench, "all these were developed for a reason, surely."

Harry thought about it for a moment; how best to describe the people of Earth's proficiency with killing each other in a reasonably positive light. "Well ... we didn't have the Wraith to worry about, or any other offworld threat for thousands of years. We developed in isolation, blissfully unaware of the existence of anything beyond our atmosphere. In fact, that is really what allowed us to be as successful as we have been in the previous eight years since we did start travelling through the gate."

"You mean that the dominant race in the galaxy did not destroy your people every time Earth even remotely posed a threat, like the Wraith do to us."

"Exactly. That allowed us to advance to a point where we could at least hold our own, so long as we played to our strengths and their weaknesses." Harry shrugged. "I won't lie to you, Teyla. Earth's history isn't exactly pleasant. Instead of there being just one culture, there are many. Earth is divided up into many different nations, about a hundred and ninety I think, differentiated by language, currency, culture, whatever. Some are tiny, so small you could walk across them in a day. Others are enormous, with populations in the billions. Since we were contained to Earth, these nations competed, for resources and power. We've had plenty of wars, violence and general destruction as a part of that ... competition.

"However, we did well in the Milky Way Galaxy – our home galaxy – once we got out there, because our enemy, the Goa'uld, had been in control for so long they grew complacent, and were more concerned with fighting each other than us. We exploited that. We had no space warships or massive armies to send through the gate, so we relied on small strike teams that fought harder, faster, smarter and more daringly than the enemy. The Goa'uld themselves were sloppy; after ten thousand years of complete dominance, their technology and tactics had stagnated to the point where they were nearly completely incapable of thinking up anything new. Once Stargate Command back on Earth hit their stride, they were running rings around them by being faster, more aggressive and far, far more inventive and adaptable than the bad guys."

_Wow, that was a red herring, I just managed to turn a question about Earth into how we beat the Goa'uld._

"Sorry, that got off topic a bit."

* * *

Teyla was, internally, jubilant – for two reasons. First, she was pleased to have her initial assessment of the Earther's capabilities confirmed; not only could they potentially defeat the Wraith, but they had apparently already dealt with a similar threat at home with almost contemptuous ease. Secondly, she was happy she had managed to get Harry to talk so freely. The Warrior was almost irritatingly reticent with any details, but she pushed down her frustration. His secrets were his own, regardless of her burning curiosity, and if she wanted to learn about him then she'd just have to chip away steadily at his walls. Thus, she decided not to push _too _much.

"Not at all, Captain. Any information about your world is interesting. So, due to these ... Goa'uld, you have experience fighting enemies like the Wraith?"

"Although I never fought the Goa'uld, I am ... accustomed, unfortunately, to being outnumbered and out-gunned by the enemy, and working through those constraints. However, I often worked alone, which is a very rare situation for one of our soldiers."

"How rare, exactly?"

"Uh … pretty much unique, I think." Harry shrugged, apparently self-conscious. _He is uncomfortable with praise,_ Teyla realised. "We are trained to fight as a team. One man can rarely fight effectively against many."

"But you can?" Teyla was interested, rather than sceptical. "How?"

"I am a ghost." _Well, that was vague. _

Harry stood, packing away the weapons. "Anyway, it's nearly breakfast, so I should get back to work." He turned back to her, that devilish, almost-imperceptible smirk returning. "I'll let you know when Doctor Beckett clears me for full duty again. Then, we'll see who the ... master ... is." _Oooh, I'm not going to let _that_ slide._

"Indeed we will, Harry. Hmm, I will have to think of a new forfeit for you, since we seem to have already had that conversation we both wanted."

"Oh, I'm positively a-quiver with dread, Teyla," was his snarky reply. "_Ela al'lekaa."_

* * *

Harry dropped the weapons bag off in his quarters, but didn't bother to change out of his workout kit and went straight down to the dining area on Level 3, not particularly surprised to find he was one of the first there. He was just setting down his tray when Major Sheppard and Doctor Weir walked in, and they joined him a few minutes later with their own.

"Hello, Capt–," was all Doctor Weir managed to get out before being forced to stifle a large yawn. Sheppard didn't seem too chatty either, and just sat down without saying anything, bleary-eyed.

"Not a morning person I see ma'am, or you sir."

"Just wait until I've had some coffee." Sheppard mumbled.

"The Major and I decided to have at least one meal a day together, for coordination and general 'getting to know each other' purposes." Weir said with a smile. "You're welcome to join us, although I don't think we'll have them at six in the morning again. John here seems a little incoherent at this early hour."

"I'm fine, Elizabeth." Sheppard took a long gulp of black coffee. "Ahhh, now I'm lucid."

"Good to hear it, sir. Wouldn't want you to fall face first into your muesli."

"Anyway..." Weir interrupted, happy to see her two top officers were friends enough to banter with each other already, "Doctor McKay would like more marines available for escort duty today, so his full department can get to work in the labs already discovered in the main tower."

"Done." Sheppard took that answer. "They were busy yesterday setting up the Armoury, stores area and quarters. We've got two of Kagan's squads free today, with one of Morales' squads on Gate duty, that makes a full platoon for escorts while the other two clear other buildings."

"Good. Doctor Grodin wants to start moving people out further down the tower. Although the area above the checkpoint is enough for short term use, it's not designed to hold all of the expedition along with just over a hundred Athosians. Can he start planning that? The actual move won't take place for a couple of days, I understand, until he's worked out who goes where."

"Yes, he can," Harry answered. "All the residential areas in the main tower are cleared and marked on the sketch maps I turned over to him yesterday. I'm sure he'll want to do a walk-around to check for himself. I'd like to keep at least one platoon resident in the part above the checkpoint – speaking of which, we need a better name for that area – but I also don't think we should have the Athosians living in some areas, Earthers in others. We're trying to get friendly with them, and we can't do that with segregation."

"Could it cause friction? I mean, the Marines aren't exactly diplomats." Sheppard asked.

"True, but most are Afghan and Gulf Two veterans, or at least the non-coms are, and they should know the basics of hearts and minds. Fortunately, the Athosians don't seem to have a violently religious minority to deal with, their faith is more pacifistic, along ancestor spirit lines a bit like Shinto." Harry caught Weir giving him an odd look. "What?"

"Your segregation point is valid, but I wasn't seeing this in terms of a 'hearts and minds' campaign, Captain."

"Well, it is one. No, this isn't Afghanistan, and we aren't trying to sort the friendlies from the tangos, but that doesn't mean the Athosians will automatically trust us. They don't know us; we don't know them. Ergo, we're going to have to work at it somewhat. Fortunately, we won't have to deal with the same truly major issues that crop up in Afghanistan, namely that the ISAF Air Forces have an unfortunate tendency to drop large bombs on helpless civilians who have angry relatives, but that doesn't mean it'll be all plain sailing either."

"Hmm." Weir eyed him thoughtfully. "I don't think I've met a soldier before who's so ... sensitive to the diplomatic side."

"Heh ... trust me, after dealing with touchy tribal leaders in various Middle Eastern countries, talking to the Athosians isn't just easy, it's a genuine pleasure." _And Teyla's kind of easier on the eyes than some heavily bearded Sheik._

"Okay, in that case, I think we should make you the official point of contact with them." Sheppard looked at Weir. "We've already decided that as the XO, Harry will be staying in the city most of the time so that one of us is here. And Teyla gets along with you, I know."

"Yeah, we've already had a chat this morning."

"Already?" Sheppard checked his watch theatrically. "It's goddamn six in the morning."

"Your point, sir? Oh-six-hundred is the traditional reveille time for the British Army; it wasn't too hard to get up half an hour before."

"Why so early though?"

"Well, we were going to spar at oh-five-thirty, but I've still got cracked ribs. Teyla decided she didn't want to risk the wrath of a certain lairy Scottish doctor of our acquaintance, so we put it off until I'm healed, and instead sat and talked."

"What about?" Weir asked, paying closer attention.

"Oh, the Athosians, her childhood and how she came to be the leader, then martial arts and a bit about Earth. I gave her a quick rundown on the SGC's success against the Goa'uld too, which she seemed happy to hear."

_No need to mention the questions she asked me_.

"Why so?"

"Well, from her point of view it proves our credentials in kicking major alien arse, sir. Teyla's pretty much staked the future of her tribe by moving them here, even if it's only for a while. If they stay, and the Wraith find out where we are, they die with us. If they leave, and if the Wraith find out they've had close contact with us, they're targets for interrogation – by which I mean 'enhanced feeding,' rather than waterboarding."

"Oh. I hadn't seen it that way."

"I hadn't either until I thought about it on the way down here. Teyla's taking a big risk with us. Back to coordination, however – turns out there are actually thirteen tribes of Athosians, and they move around quite a bit – especially when the Wraith get more active. Teyla wants to contact them ASAP, while she still knows roughly where they are."

"Sure, should make for a few easy first runs."

"Which martial art do you compete in?" Weir asked suddenly.

_Waaaay off topic there, doc._

"No competing about it, ma'am. I practice Eskrima, and I use it in combat, not sports competitions." Harry was not particularly surprised that Doctor Weir hadn't noticed the swords he often carried. The black low-profile scabbards were hard to see when strapped along his spine with the handles out of sight, and he hadn't been around the expedition leader much the last couple of days – in fact, he hadn't been up to the control room since returning from the rescue mission. "You interested in learning?"

"Well, yes actually. It occurred to me that I don't really know how to defend myself properly." Weir raised an eyebrow at him questioningly. "You interested in teaching?"

"I brought extra practise equipment to do just that. Teyla's style is similar to mine as well. Give me a couple of weeks or so to heal the ribs and start learning her style and we'll work a time out for teaching."

"I know you haven't actually sparred with her yet, but d'ya think Teyla's any good?" Sheppard asked.

Harry chuckled. "Well, she seemed pretty sure she'd kick my arse. I guess we'll see."

* * *

For the next week, the Expedition settled into Atlantis without too much trouble. The two air force officers continued their 'campaign' to win the respect of the Marines, patrolling the city and familiarising themselves with the administration, equipment and personalities of the unit.

Most military officers - even Navy or Air Force - are trained in infantry doctrine during Basic, simply because it is one of the simplest ways to teach command and leadership to young officers who then go on to more specialist trades. As such, John Sheppard was a pretty decent infantryman, and his training with 8th Special Forces Squadron had included ground combat as a part of being able to survive if shot down.

However, _survival_ training is not the same as small-unit infantry _command_, which Harry's years of Special Forces experience gave him much more familiarity with. As such, he had a more realistic appreciation of what the realities of Stargate Operations would be like, as they were mostly going to be infantry-based. Sheppard had already given a general stamp of approval to let Harry start training up a special rapid reaction squad to deploy through the gate, which would be equipped with heavier weapons and would be able to punch considerably above the weight of a normal four man reconnaissance team - Harry would probably end up leading it too, if something else didn't come up.

The 'command breakfast' had become a fixture despite the early hour, as had spending dinner with the Athosians or some of the scientists, most of whom were pretty decent sorts bar the occasional idiot who seemed to think soldiers were a lower form of life. Surprisingly, Rodney McKay - despite the overwhelming aura of arrogance the man carried around - was not one of these types; he just thought _everyone_ was stupid including the other scientists, and his snarky, sarcastic attitude was mildly amusing if it wasn't directed at you. Harry was prepared to put up with a lot from McKay, who'd already sufficiently demonstrated his genius and dedication by working round the clock to programme interfaces for the laptops and tablets that the control room staff now used to work the Atlantean systems.

Fortunately, McKay didn't direct much of his already infamous bad temper at Harry, mostly because the scarred British soldier scared the crap out of him.

The civilian Expedition staff still didn't quite know what to make of him – apart from Sheppard, all the military types were Marines and therefore _sort_ of homogeneous, as groups of personnel from the same, close-knit unit often appear to outsiders. Harry was something of an anomaly to both sides of the expedition - the civilians often judged on looks, so they were mostly terrified of him, and the Marines were similarly mildly scared of him to a lesser degree. The American term for him would be a 'Tier One Operator,' and the members of such units didn't interact all that much with other units' personnel, even those like the Force Recon Marines sent to Atlantis. That said, 'The Regiment's' reputation was enough to be going on with, and Sheppard's friendly but firm attitude meant the Marines were steadily warming up to the 'flyboy' officers.

Most of the city's secondary systems were still offline. Environmental and power distribution were up (although the naquadah generators were not even close to being the equivalent of even a barely-charged ZPM) but city sensors were still inaccessible, as were the city's full schematics or any inventory of equipment or labs. The Ancient Database was, according to those who were working on it, incredibly disorganised, apparently random in its filing system – if it had one at all. The Ancients hadn't ordered their files in any recognisable way, and the boffins were scratching their heads as to how such an obviously technologically advanced and spatially dispersed race had managed without proper information storage, sharing and archiving for literally millenniums worth of research and development, let alone the kind of economic, social, cultural or political data which even Earth already had reams of. The current theory was that some sort of scrambling or other security protocol had been activated before they left the city for the Milky Way – but if so, it had been very, very thorough, and would not be easy to reverse - not to mention it had to be translated.

Harry had spent the first three days of the week with the Marines, clearing towers out in the city, mostly to get them used to the idea he wasn't just sitting in the office. However, once he thought he had driven that home, he started getting involved in all the other minutiae of the duties of being the XO.

* * *

The position of executive officer is often misunderstood or maligned by those who haven't had the pleasure of the position themselves. On one end of the scale, he could be the holy terror of inexperienced junior officers, a chief inquisitor who seems to spend his waking hours torturing and harassing the unit staff. At the other end of the scale, he might be a complete hermit who remains shackled to a computer in an office next to the CO, surfacing only occasionally for staff meetings or much-needed cups of coffee.

However, the XO is, frankly, the busiest guy in the whole place – his primary duty is to run the unit's day to day affairs – an extremely broad remit, including (amongst other things) logistics, training, personnel administration and security – for which he has to relentlessly supervise the staff to ensure they are doing their duties correctly (and be the whip cracker if they are not) in order to free up the Commanding Officer's time to be dedicated to operational planning and liaising with higher command.

The XO is also usually the second in command of the unit as well, and so must also be completely up to date with the commander's intent and the tactical situation at any moment during combat, as he is only one well-placed bullet or IED away from having to step up and take control of the whole show with a minimum of disruption. Also, as the Exec is usually the second most experienced officer present he often has to function as the CO's tactical sounding board during operations planning. It is also the XO who has to function as the mentor to new officers, to enable them to understand the unique minutiae of the organisation or sub-unit they are now a part of – and correct their mistakes, which they will almost inevitably make.

That's the **short** version of the job description, so if that list already seems large, multi-faceted, insanely complex and utterly confusing, that's because the job _really_ is that hard.

Fortunately, Harry didn't have to worry about quite a bit of it. The officers and marines who had been deployed to Atlantis weren't wet-behind-the ears recruits; they almost all had combat experience and glowing reports from previous CO's. In the same way that the science staff very much represented Earth's best, so did the military contingent – there were no troublemakers, incompetents or REMF's allowed in this company. They were Force Recon, hand picked for a special mission – which in their eyes made them the elite of the elite that was Force Recon, which was itself part the elite that they saw USMC as a whole as, and they were damned if they were going to let the Corps down out here in Pegasus, even if no one knew they were here.

As such, the usual mishmash of disciplinary problems, missing equipment, and personnel admin issues like pay, allowances and coordinating leave time that usually made up part of the reasons for any given XO's prematurely receding hairline were not a concern in Pegasus – for example, with nothing to spend it on, their pay was simply being put into their bank accounts back home. Logistics ran very, very smoothly under the veteran supervision of MGS Santorini, and First Sergeant Saito checked in with him every morning to give a rundown on any outstanding issues with the enlisted men whose welfare he was responsible for. 'Top', as the First Sergeant was known as, was like Santorini – an experienced non-com with nearly as many years in the Corps as Harry had been alive - so Harry learned to defer to his advice early on.

From Harry's point of view, this was the kind of spot another XO would dream about. Without many of the petty, minor issues that normally plagued time-strapped 2i/c's, and without any pressure from any higher command looking over his shoulder and second-guessing his decisions, he could afford to rely on and delegate to his extremely efficient NCO's – to a point, at least – and get far more hands on with the rest of his Atlantis-specific duties. One such activity was instructing the Athosians who had volunteered for offworld recon in using Earth weapons. Most would just be taught to use sidearms, but a few – mostly those who had lost direct relations to the Wraith, like Teyla or Halling – wanted to be more proactive and fight directly, which meant giving them above-average proficiency with more powerful weapons. However, before he could do that, he needed to know exactly what they had in the armoury.

The P-90s and other 'everyday' firearms were stored in the large room nearest the stairs on Level 1 so they could be deployed quickly – along with the P-90s, the Marines had brought a vast collection of weaponry. In this one room alone, Harry saw M40 sniper rifles, M249 light machine guns, a limited number of modded-out 5.56mm G36, M4A1 assault rifles and Benelli M4 shotguns, and both 9mm M9 and .45 calibre Heckler & Koch Mk23 sidearms.

There was also a somewhat odd-looking variant of the AR-15 rifle family that he struggled to identify, until Santorini helped him out, naming it as an AR-57, a variant of the M-4 that had been modified to accept both the 5.7mm rounds the P-90s fired, as well as the P-90s unusual top-mounted magazines. The AR-57 was one of the solutions they had found in order not to have to bring too many different types of ammunition – the majority of which was stored on the other side of the floor, only keeping a 'ready-use' stockpile in the main armoury. If there was an accident – which was a whole lot more likely around the guns than in the main magazine – Santorini didn't want their whole ammunition stockpile going up in one almighty bang; an explosion which incidentally would take out a significant fraction of the tower and most of the expedition with it.

And then the MGS had shown him the _next _room along the corridor.

As he opened the door, Santorini smirked, enjoying the surprise he was about to spring. "The Colonel always said to 'expect the unexpected,' so …" He just trailed off, and waved the new XO inside.

_Should probably be the motto of all SGC operations period…_Harry thought as he walked in, followed rapidly by _bloody hellfire … it's like Aladdin's Cave for the NRA in here._

A marine company had an organic weapons platoon that usually had three M224 60mm mortars, six SMAW anti-armour rockets and six M240B 7.62mm medium MGs, along with a slightly larger amount of manpower to keep the extra weight as mobile as the rest of the company.

However, the Atlantis detachment – actually designated B Company (Force Reconnaissance), 2nd Marine Expeditionary Force, Camp Lejeune – had also, with the usual USMC belief in superior firepower, brought six .50 calibre M2 Browning HMG's, four FGM-148 Javelin anti-armour guidance units and no less than twelve Stinger shoulder-launched surface-to-air missile tubes to complement both the weapons platoon's heavies and the rifle platoons' AT-4 unguided rockets and light support weapons.

This was, to say the least, an insanely large collection of firepower – with an appropriately large amount of ammunition too. If correctly employed would be more than enough to give the small Stargate teams a big tactical edge in hostile contacts, especially with the mobility afforded by the cloaked jumpers. Harry, who was already planning the have reaction team use the stealthy craft, now mentally added the possibility of having the heavy support weapons deployed individually by jumper, which would allow them to be both well dispersed and have their own air support – _oh, the possibilities are endless._ In the far corner he spotted a row of six .50 sniper rifles and two six-shot M32 40mm grenade launchers.

"Oh, boy, we are going to have _so_ much fun with this."

* * *

As it turned out, the Athosians were quite proficient in using technology and weapons, even if they no longer had the means or knowledge to replicate such things. Their civilisation had been significantly urbanized and advanced by the time of the Wraith-Lantean War, in which their people were pretty much entirely destroyed in 'The Great Attack,' which the old city on their planet and the carvings Teyla had shown to Harry indicated. However, some remnants of their old technology still survived, like their laser-derived fire-starters, and the Athosians themselves remained aware of what they had lost even if they had been forced into a nomadic hunter-gatherer culture to avoid the Wraith culls. As such, they hadn't had too much trouble picking up the general principles behind Earth firearms operation and use - they certainly didn't believe they were magic.

"This is a FN Herstal P-90 personal defence weapon." Harry was standing in the 25 metre range the Marines had set up, once they'd MacGuyvered a bullet catcher against the back wall, with a rubber curtain and a thick metal wall panel angled downwards into a sand trap, made of soil from the 10,000 year old dead plant pots. Around him were Teyla, Halling and five other Athosians – two men and thee women – who had requested to get special training, and Stackhouse to help out.

"It's a rather unconventional weapon that is designed with a number of features designed to make it more compact and lethal." The matt-black, boxy and futuristic looking firearm was resting, unloaded on the table in front of him. "We covered the internal mechanisms of firearms yesterday when Sergeant Stackhouse demonstrated the M9 – this is fundamentally similar in principle if not in operation or looks. It fires 5.7mm ammunition specially designed to penetrate armour and tumble around inside the target to do more damage." Harry looked around, catching their eyes and holding their attention. "We'll cover cleaning and maintenance later, and teach safety and shooting with it first since that's going to be the important bit for you guys."

A few minutes later, having covered the range safety procedures again, demonstrating how to aim and find the correct eye relief for the optical sight, he put them through the lesson, demonstrating the usual shooting stances, fire modes, reloading, clearing jams and snap shooting. The range had three lanes, so eventually only Teyla was left, having hung back and let the others go first – the others had already dispersed after their time on the range, needing to attend to their families and other business.

Teyla's shooting was pretty damn good for a beginner. The P-90's recoil was reasonable, easy to control, and the small size and light weight of the weapon helped.

"Pretty good, Teyla. Still got some rounds going high, but that'll drop off as you get used to the weapon. Apart from that, just fine. Stackhouse'll run another session tomorrow for all of you, and test the day after that. Then we can start sending teams out properly. However, practice makes perfect, so training doesn't stop just because you're on a team. Especially Sheppard's."

"Why's that?"

Harry grinned. "Because he's a trouble magnet. And because you'll be on what we call the 'flagship' team, like SG-1 back home, the team that led the offensive against the Goa'uld. They got into all sorts of situations they had to talk, shoot or bluff their way out of. I fully expect Major Sheppard's AR-1 to get into all the same misadventures here. It'll probably be quite a wild ride."

"AR-1? You soldiers and these 'acronyms', I can never keep up." Teyla complained with an exasperated look.

"You get used to it." Harry reassured her. "It was going to be 'Atlantis Reconnaissance Team One' in its full version, but we shortened it to 'Atlantis Recon One.'"

"I see. So …" Teyla drew the word out, "How well can you shoot, Captain?"

Harry smirked. Despite asking Teyla to call him Harry, she still used his rank most of the time, so he'd given up correcting her. "Do you want to set a forfeit for this too?"

"Ancestors, no!" Teyla laughed. "I have no doubt that would be rather one sided."

"It might be." Harry agreed, and then eyed the fresh targets they'd just set up downrange before reviewing Teyla's shooting. "Ear defence." He gestured for the Athosian leader and the sergeant to pick up the hearing protection as he flipped up the board in the centre lane. Then he turned to face them once more, unsnapping the safety strap on his thigh holster, and raised his voice somewhat because of the earmuffs.

"Okay, this might be showing off a bit, but ... "

With that, Harry spun around and drew his weapon in the same movement. Although the armoury had brand new Heckler & Koch Mark 23's, a special operations pistol that was procured specifically to replace the Marine Corps' beloved, but ageing Colt .45's, he'd stuck with his MEU-SOC 1911 anyway. It was an old familiar friend to him that had saved his life more than once. He could always get a Mk. 23 later.

Harry's spin ended with him in the 'Weaver' stance. A pistol shooting grip developed for US law enforcement, in the Weaver stance the 'grip' arm - in Harry's case, he was right-handed - is extended, but slightly bent at the elbow and is 'pushed' out. The supporting arm is noticeably bent further downward, and is 'pulled' inwards. The resultant tension in the right wrist is intended to control muzzle recoil to allow for more rapid, aimed follow-up shots. The feet are planted with the dominant side foot to the rear, angled out at 45 degrees, with most of the weight on the forward foot, allowing the rear one to further absorb the recoil, while also enabling rapid changes in movement to manoeuvre both the shooter and the weapon in confined, urban environments.

Harry's sights landed on the left target, and the weapon barked two rapid shots, followed by a slight pause - no more than half a second really - then one more. Two ragged holes appeared in the bull's-eye marked on the outline's chest, and the third in the centre of the forehead - but he didn't stop there. The right-hand target received the same treatment, and the middle one got a double-tap to the head, with only a tiny break between each target - eight shots, all three targets 'dead' in five seconds.

Teyla was impressed, but also knew she had no real context to place it in except her own, admittedly novice experience over the past couple of days. That context, however, was rapidly provided by the training sergeant standing beside her.

"Fucking hell." Stackhouse muttered. "I thought I was a good shot, but …" He trailed off when he saw Teyla glance at him in surprise. "Uh, sorry."

Teyla wasn't sure what he was apologising for, but just nodded and looked back to the Captain, who was scrutinising the targets.

"Oops. Nearly missed that one." The bullet hole in the right-hand target's head was an inch or two off centre. He turned back to face them, and caught Stackhouse's mildly awestruck look. "What?"

"Missed, sir?" The NCO started to laugh. "I'm the best pistol marksman in the company, sir, and I'm not even close to that level. Eight kill-shots at three targets in five seconds at _twenty-five metres _..." He shook his head.

"That is particularly difficult?" Teyla asked.

"Definitely. I wouldn't believe it if I hadn't seen it."

"Well ..." Harry shrugged.

"Just remind me not to get on your bad side, sir. Or challenge you to a shooting competition."

"Indeed." Teyla agreed. "Speaking of our other little wager ... has Doctor Beckett cleared you yet, Harry?"

"No, I'll see him again tomorrow morning. I'll come and find you if he does and we'll work out a time."

"Excellent. I look forward to it." Teyla left with more formal half-bow, more of a deep nod. She'd done it a few times before, so Harry assumed it was an Athosian custom.

"What wager would that be, sir?" asked Stackhouse, now replacing the targets again as Harry gathered up the spent casings for reloading.

"Oh, just a bet that she could kick my arse at hand-to-hand." Harry said distractedly as he crouched to peer under the range tables.

Stackhouse blinked, looked at him. "She any good?"

"Maybe, maybe not, guess I'll find out. I'll tell you one thing though, Sergeant. Don't underestimate her, or the other Athosians. Their civilisation was even more advanced than Earth before the Wraith totalled it, and they still retain quite a bit of knowledge and skills."

"I'll keep that in mind, sir. And pass it along."

* * *

The next morning, Harry was back in the infirmary once more, sitting and waiting for Carson to finish with McKay. In the meantime, the conversation between the two was becoming rather amusing.

"I'm so surprised you're so eager to volunteer for this, Rodney." Apparently the Canadian had been adamant he'd be the first to receive the ATA trial retro-virus gene-therapy Beckett had been developing to give the gene to those who weren't born with it naturally. _I wonder if Carson could give magical abilities to people like that,_ Harry mused as he watched.

"You know me, always eager to help." McKay was fairly bouncing with excitement, a stark contrast to the phlegmatic Scottish doctor who was tapping at his elbow vein.

"Right." Carson tone conveyed a whole truckload of disbelief with a single word. "So do you have any questions about the process, I mean you are a scientist."

"I'm sorry, medicine is about as much a science as, I don't know, voodoo?" McKay's casual dismissal was less than pleasing to the medic - a genius in his own right - who glared at him as he continued. "All I need to know is that it will allow me to use ancient technology like you, Major Sheppard or," he indicated Harry, sitting two beds over, "Captain Potter."

"Yes, hopefully. You are the first _human_ trial." _Uh-oh. I know that tone. Carson's decided to have some fun._ Harry had quickly learned the Scottish doctor's relatively dour professional demeanour concealed a rather pointed, sarcastic wit that could be hilariously well-timed. Rodney clearly picked up on something, too.

"Uh ... why now? We need as many people with the gene as we could get ..." The physicist trailed off as Carson brandished a large, ominous and very _pointy_ syringe.

"Well, actually, without proper FDA approval it'd be virtually impossible to do something like this on Earth ..." Catching McKay's increasingly panicked expression, Carson gave him what Harry assumed was supposed to be a reassuring smile – which really, really wasn't. "Let's just say it's legal here in the Pegasus Galaxy." With that, he made to push the injector into his patient's arm, but McKay pulled away.

"Wait, so it's completely safe?"

Carson shrugged. "Well, as far as experimental gene therapy goes. I _am_ manipulatin' your DNA ... here we go." He leaned over again.

"Waitwaitwait, maybe you should ... tell me more?"

Carson sighed exasperatedly, and began lecturing. "We believe Ancient Technology Activation, or ATA is caused by a single gene that's always on, instructing various cells in the body to create a series of enzymes that interact with the skin, nervous system and the brain. In this case we'll be using a mouse retrovirus to deliver the missing gene to your cells."

"A mouse?"

Another sigh. "It's been deactivated." The doctor's look clearly conveyed a more sarcastic message: '_no, you're not going to turn into a rodent you idiot_.'

With that, he stuck the syringe in Rodney's arm with no warning.

"Are there any si-de ef-fects?" McKay's voice became higher pitched with each syllable.

With his victim – err, patient – now beyond the point of no return, Carson really let rip. "Headache, dry mouth … the _irresistible urge to run in a small wheel_ ..."

"Ah, that's very amusing." McKay was obviously not.

"I thought so." Carson unwrapped the surgical strap around the Canadian's upper arm. "Now, Captain Potter, how are you doing?"

"Great, now let me out of here." Harry glanced at McKay, "Before our esteemed Head of Science decides to go looking for cheese." The doctor laughed while McKay grumped.

"Oh, very funny."

"What is that thing?" Harry pointed with his chin at the little device McKay was clutching tightly.

"Oh, just something the Ancient's were experimenting on."

"Do you know what it is?"

"Pretty sure, yeah."

"Hmm." Harry gave him a look. "Don't screw around with the tech, Doc. Even innocuous things can kill you if you don't understand them."

"I know what I'm doing." McKay shot over his shoulder as he left the infirmary.

"Well, Harry it looks like you're fit for duty." Carson said after removing the bindings on his ribcage and doing whatever doctors did, which for some reason included shining a light in his eyes. _Don't know why they bother to do that every single bloody time, it's not like my head or eyes were injured._ "Let me get an x-ray to check and then you can go."

"Whoopee." Harry deadpanned. "With my usual luck, I'll be back here tomorrow."

"Oh don't be so depressed, Captain. You're in an alien city in a different galaxy! Live a little!"

Harry smiled at him. "So, am I fit to go back to full duty?"

"Yes. It was only a few cracked ribs, they're healed. Don't throw yourself around too much though, they're still weaker than normal. And don't climb any more seventy story skyscrapers!" Carson shook his finger at him. "I heard about that!"

Harry grinned unrepentantly, but capitulated ... for the moment. "Got it, doc."

* * *

Harry spent the rest of the morning with an injured Peter Grodin, whose hand had apparently had an unfortunate impact with an Ancient personal shield device – the thing McKay had been clutching. They had just finished sorting out the new accommodation plan – the Marine area in particular was becoming a little unpleasant, despite their best efforts – when Harry's earpiece crackled.

"_Captain Potter, Doctor Grodin, this is the Control Room. Command meeting requested by Doctor Weir, ASAP."_

Harry grimaced. "Control Room this is Storm, I'm with Grodin, copy that. Oscar mike, out."** _Got to get the control room to follow radio procedure, it's getting ridiculous._ He turned to Grodin, who was already picking up his tablet and standing. "Any ideas?"

"Rodney finished coding the self-destruct yesterday evening, we were going to input the codes and lock them down today."

"Ah, all right. Let's go, I think we've got this wrapped up."

On the way up to the control room, Harry finally ran into Teyla, for whom he had been keeping an eye out for all morning. He split off to talk to her, waving Grodin to go on ahead.

"_Maasa el'khair_, Teyla. Doctor Beckett's cleared me for practice again, so ... tomorrow? Same time as before?"

"Certainly, Captain. I look forward to my victory." Teyla had regained her bravado somewhat over the last week, upping the stakes in their little game. "I'll reveal the forfeit tomorrow."

"Okay, I'll see you then, or at dinner probably."

By the time Harry trooped into the control room, Grodin was sitting at a laptop on the main console, with the other upper level staff – Weir, Sheppard, Ford as the military third in command, McKay and the other department heads – gathered around.

"The self destruct requires two separate codes. Each code is unique, and each person here will be required to memorize their code."

"Well don't bother giving me one." McKay muttered. Harry frowned slightly.

"Why not, Doctor McKay?"

"Oh, just because I'm a dead man walking." McKay pointed to a small glowing green jewel-thing attached to his chest – the shield generator. "I can't eat or drink because of this, the shield won't let anything past. _Anything_."

"Ah. Well. I'm usually above this, but ... I told you so."

McKay's irate glare just slid off Harry's smirk like water off a duck's feathers.

Weir got them back on point. "This is the only Stargate in Pegasus that can dial Earth that we know of. This makes it our last line of defence, and we simply cannot let them gain control of this complex."

"If both codes are entered, the naquadah generator will overload in about twenty seconds."

"Are we sure it will do enough damage?" Ford asked.

"Ever seen a twenty kiloton nuclear explosion?"

_Ah, there's the old snarky McKay we all know and ... put up with._

"I have." Sheppard looked around at the odd looks he was getting. "Not up close."

Harry cocked his head over to one side and looked at Sheppard speculatively. "Was that the thing in Yemen?"

"Yeah ... what, were you there?"

Harry shrugged. "Maybe. If I told you, I'd have to kill you." Sheppard rolled his eyes, and Harry relented. "If you were the C-SAR pilot with the callsign Guardian Two One who pulled me and Scarecrow out of that miserable hole in the earth, then yes."***

"Ah, no, I was flying Guardian Two Two, the backup bird. Still, that was you on the ground?"

Harry grimaced, "Yeah. Me and a few US Marines, survivors of the team that went in first. Quite possibly the most hair-raising six hours of my life, that was."

Weir interrupted his reminiscence then. "What are you two talking about? There haven't been any nuclear weapons going off on Earth, I'm sure somebody would have noticed."

"I am not at liberty to neither confirm nor deny such an event, ma'am." Harry told her. Sheppard rolled his eyes.

"We're about three million light-years from home, Harry. I think we can drop a few hints."

"Fine." Harry shrugged again. "It was only about five or six kilotons, not twenty, by the way Major, a stolen Russian suitcase bomb. To put that in context, Hiroshima was about sixteen Kay-Tees. It was in the hands of a Jihadist group who were storing it for security down the bottom of a heavily-defended old mine up in the mountains, proper fucking badlands, surrounded by warlords and Sharia law extremist types. I was in Afghanistan at the time, and got thrown on a plane to go get it back, but the Marines were closer and responded first. They got pinned down and took casualties after getting inside the mine, so I bailed them out we went deeper to get the weapon. Some prick set a timer on it though, and although I'm a passably trained in defusing bombs, a nuke rigged with booby traps is well out of my league, so we left it and got the hell out of that mine right sharpish. About ten minutes later, we were just embarking into the evac chopper when the bomb went off. It was a long way underground, so the fallout was contained and only a small part of the usual fireball reached the surface. I think it was covered up as an old underground ammo dump being accidentally set off. The Yemeni government was a little pissed off at us, to say the least, but they went along with it. Too embarrassing to admit they have a terrorist problem publicly even though everybody already knows." Harry rolled his eyes. "Politics."

"I'm sorry ..." Ford looked disbelieving. "How did nobody see that?"

"Amazing what people will ignore, if they don't want to believe what they see. As I said, the explosion was mostly sealed up down an old mine which is now completely caved in, obviously. The seismologists registered an earthquake, but out in the mountains the only people to see it were us and ..." Harry paused for dramatic effect, and delivered the punchline with a perfectly straight face, "... shepherds, apparently."

His commanding officer groaned while Weir and some of the other civilians chuckled. "Oh god ... Harry, keep puns like that to yourself from now on."

"Ah, you're such a killjoy, boss."

"No, it's just the CO's prerogative to make crappy jokes which you all have to laugh at. That's a new SOP by the way, make a note."**** Sheppard said in his best 'official' voice. Ford apparently couldn't decide whether to laugh or just shake his head in disbelief at both his new boss' irreverence.

_Very different command style to Sumner, that's for sure. Going to take the Marines a while to get used to it_. _Hell, it's going to take me a while to get used to it, and I wasn't even working for the guy for months or years beforehand._

Levity over, Sheppard changed gears. "Don't you think we should tell Teyla about this?"

"We aren't?" Harry asked Weir, who looked a bit uncomfortable.

"We still have no idea if it was one of her people who brought the Wraith down on you on their planet."

"I trust Teyla," Sheppard protested immediately. Harry knew he'd asked Teyla to join his prospective team 'AR-1' just the evening before.

"And so do I, but I don't know her people. I just want some time to get to know them better."

* * *

Harry knew that the relative peace of the last few days had been too good to be true. He was awoken from a dreamless sleep by Major Sheppard, who started giving orders in a calm but urgent tone even before the door had slid fully into the walls.

"Jinto's missing. Teams of two, floor to floor sweep, start with the Jumpers. Full gear."

Then he was gone, off up the corridor with a panicking Wex and worried Halling in hot pursuit – well, as fast a pursuit as a ten year old and man on crutches could manage.

Harry had already started storing a ready-set of gear in his room. He threw on the Dragon armour – screw blending with the Marines, the Level III protection rig was better than those light armour tac-vests the SGC had supplied, capable of stopping steel-core 7.62 AK-47 rounds at anything more than five metres. It was pre-loaded with a standard CQB loadout for a quick response time to emergencies in the City itself, and had five full P-90 mags, four for his 1911, and two each of fragmentation, flash-bang and smoke grenades, as well as a few small blocks of C4 for breaching. With that over his Atlantis uniform, he slid the radio earpiece on as he sat down to put on his boots.

"Control Room, this is Storm. Who is the officer of the watch?"

"_Markham here, sir."_

"Sergeant, this is Storm. We have a missing Athosian kid. Ford's platoon is on ready alert, get one of the gate guard squad down there to kick the rest of 'em out of bed, get full gear on and wait in the armoury area. I'll get Ford. Acknowledge over."

"_Copy that, missing kid, wake up first platoon, full gear, wait for orders, Markham out." _

_It's great to have good subordinates_.

Grodin's new accommodation plan had been put into effect a few days before, as the upper levels was getting crowded. There were 165 Marines, two hundred and forty five scientists and about a hundred Athosians – over five hundred people crammed into an area probably designed to fit two hundred comfortably, and maybe three hundred at worst – now, every member of the expedition had their own room, and there had been enough larger suites for the Athosian's various family units. Harry's room hadn't moved, but three of the Marine platoons had moved further down the tower into rooms interspersed with the Athosians and scientists. Their officers and the four company NCOs had remained in the upper tower where they could be easily reached, as had one of Ford's squads.

"Ford, you on the net?" _No response._ _Oh well, he's in the next corridor over anyway._

Those floors that had been designed for living quarters had clearly been off a template – no two levels were the same, but they were all similar. A ring of rooms ran around the perimeter of the tower, accessed by a corridor that went all the way round and had the staircases at each end. Crossing the middle were two corridors with doors to the interior rooms with no windows, and where they met in the middle a large pillar, presumably the structural core of the tower, barred the way, preventing direct line of sight the length of the corridor. On some floors the interior spaces had been removed to make way for communal areas, or had more specialist functions like the kitchen and dining level, which took up half a floor, or the family suites lower down. On the Marine level, the interior rooms were all storerooms.

As such, Ford's room was on the far side of the tower. He too had clearly been asleep. Harry relayed the orders, then caught up to Major Sheppard at the stairs. The CO had grabbed his own set of tactical gear.

"He isn't in any of the living quarters." Teyla arrived with Halling, clearly worried but keeping it controlled. Harry was pleased to find his assessment of her leadership skills accurate so far, but just nodded at her. _  
_

"I'm coming with you." Halling's tone clearly brooked no argument, but Sheppard tried anyway.

"You going to be all right on that leg?"

Halling just glared, more in indignation than anger really. "He's my _son._" Unsaid was the implied '_duh.'_

Sheppard shrugged, and turned to Harry. "Who's platoon is it tonight?"

"Ford. He's up, got the orders."

"Good. Coordinate from the control room, I'll go with Halling downstairs. See what you can do with the city systems, they've got to have something relevant. Begin coordinating the search from up there."

"On it."

As Harry left them to it, the lights dimmed. After stopping in at the Armoury to pick up a P-90, he double timed up to the control room where he found Weir, Grodin and McKay ... _shutting off the Stargate?_ _What the hell? Why was it active?_ He nodded at Markham, who was standing over by the door to the Gate Room.

"What the hell is going on?" Weir demanded, echoing his thoughts.

Grodin shrugged. "I don't know, nothing like this has happened before."

"We've only been here for a few days." McKay interjected. "Some of this stuff is pretty old. It's that, or there really are ghosts."

_Um ... not going to correct his assumption on that._

The radio crackled. "_Control Room, this is Sheppard. Lights just went out, over._"

"Major, we're experiencing some technical malfunctions." Weir answered, then turned and saw Harry.

"Captain, how goes the search for Jinto?"

"Mobilising the duty platoon now. Would take a lot less time if city internal sensors were working."

"We don't have nearly enough power to fire those up," McKay replied while focusing on another console.

"Well, how about not all at once?"

McKay spun around. "That wouldn't ... actually, it might work. Going to take a while to adjust the sensors though."

_Good to see he can see past his initial rejection of an idea just because he didn't think of it._

"Do it." Weir ordered. Teyla arrived and pulled the doctor outside for a chat while Harry moved over to Grodin to ask about the sensors in more detail. The Brit scientist was far less egotistical than McKay and, consequently, considerably easier to work with.

Weir called to him from the stairs outside half a minute later, so he left Peter to it and went to see what the new crisis was. Teyla and Weir were standing there along with a young brunette Athosian girl whose name he wasn't sure of.

"Marta here," Weir gestured to the girl, "thinks she saw a Shadow, like a wraith projection -" Harry's eyes widened in surprise. _Here? _"- but Teyla doesn't sense them. I'm still concerned."

"How reliable is that sense?" Harry directed the question to Teyla, who shrugged helplessly.

"It worked a few days ago during the attack on Athos. Other than that, I have only encountered the Wraith a few times before, so I have not had much practice."

"Hmmm." Harry looked away for a few seconds, thinking. "Well, it's not a threat we can ignore anyway We should lock down the newly occupied area lower down the tower; get the rest of the company up and running."

"Do it."

"Markham!" Harry called back into the control room. The Sergeant looked up from where he was checking a laptop.

"Sir!"

"Double time it down to the living areas, take half the guard squad with you to assist. Get the rest of the company up and stood to, normal loadout, a-sap. Wake the officers and senior NCO's first – Ford's already out looking for Jinto – and get them up here ASAP for briefing. Tell them we have a possible Wraith presence in the city, which should light a fire under them."

Markham nodded, and then disappeared back into the control room to go to the staircase while talking on the radio. Harry had ordered all the rooms of the newly occupied areas to have tags with the occupants' names and occupations written on them, so it would be easy to find all the Marines quickly.

Harry tapped the 'push to talk' button. "Major Sheppard, this is Storm. Message, over."

"_Storm, Sheppard. Send, over." Nice to hear someone does it properly round here._

"Message follows: possible Wraith presence in the city. Civvie reported sighting something like a Wraith projection. Full company mobilisation under-way Recommend you pull back to occupied areas, over."

"_Copy that, Storm. Establish a perimeter on the floor below the lowest one we've occupied so far, then start a search grid for Jinto and any hostiles inside the zone. I'm on the way back to the Control Room with Halling. Interrogative, where was the sighting? Over."_

_Doh! Should have asked that._

"Wait one on that._" _Harry turned to Marta. "Where did you see it?"

"I was wandering a few floors below our rooms; Dr Grodin said they were on Level Twenty when he showed our family the new quarters down there."

"Sheppard, Storm. Sighting was somewhere around Level Twenty-two. Will set up a perimeter on Twenty-one."

"_Affirmative on that. We're on twenty-one right now, on the way up. Out."_

Harry waited on the stairs for the marine command elements to arrive, while Weir went back into the control room. He was trying to calculate how much time it would take to re-clear the twenty levels they had occupied.

"Does Doctor Weir trust me?"

Harry blinked, and looked at Teyla, surprised at the rather abrupt question. "Uh ... what?" was his intelligent reply.

"Does Doctor Weir trust me?" Teyla asked again, in a slightly less demanding tone than before.

"Yes. Why ask?"

Teyla looked away, now slightly embarrassed at her outburst. "It just seems like … like she ignores what my people could do to help. Not with this situation, exactly, but more generally. Like she thinks us useless, but is too polite to say it."

Harry raised an eyebrow. He hadn't been aware of any tension between Teyla and the director, but then his presence hadn't been required at most of the routine staff meetings and briefings that the heads of department, Weir and Teyla usually went to in order to keep up with everything. Harry knew Sheppard had to go to them, and trusted his new CO to tell him anything important. Which apparently he hadn't, or he hadn't noticed.

_Although there was that whole conversation Weir and Sheppard had when we programmed the self-destruct codes_._ But Teyla didn't hear that, did she? No ... must have been something else._

"We have concerns." Harry began, then realised this might be a mistake, but proceeded anyway. "The Wraith attack coming so soon after our own arrival on your home planet could have just been coincidence, but we aren't assuming anything."

"So you think I or one of my people is a traitor?" Teyla was getting angry now. Harry couldn't blame her really; he hadn't exactly broached the topic very well.

_Definitely a mistake to bring this up._

"No." Harry met Teyla's eyes, trying to convey his absolute sincerity. "What I meant was that we cannot discount the _possibility_. We're new to this galaxy; we have no idea what the Wraith are capable of. In my opinion, they knew we were there, on your planet. The attack was too closely timed to mean anything else. However, we _don't_ _know,_" Harry deliberately stressed that part, "how _they _knew. It could have been a spy satellite, or sensors on the Stargate, or around your camp, or in the old city. But," Harry held up a finger to stop Teyla from replying just yet, "it could also have been an informant. Again, we _don't know, _if that is the case, why they did so. It could be they didn't even know they betrayed us all, Teyla, that the Wraith have some kind of remote control over their actions. They've already displayed the ability to influence our minds, these shadows," Harry gestured at Marta, still standing below Teyla on the steps, "they project to distract us."

_Now certainly isn't the best time to point out Teyla herself can sense the presence of the Wraith remotely, which unfortunately is something rather too similar for comfort._

Teyla seemed mollified somewhat, but still annoyed. "So you don't know if you can trust us. Is that what you're saying?"

"Unfortunately, yes, although we would very much like to, _alz'eyma_. We simply don't know enough about the Wraith, so we had to consider the worst possible scenario." Harry sighed. "You told me you trusted me, Teyla, a few mornings ago. I don't deceive or lie to my friends. Don't take that trust away now the going gets difficult. You _can_ trust me."

Teyla locked gazes with him for several seconds, and then nodded sharply. "I do, Captain. I do. But you should be aware that accusing someone of working for the Wraith is a most grievous insult to an Athosian; the most grievous, actually. If you had done so directly just then, you would not have had to wait until the morning for your sparring match."

Harry couldn't quite stop the smirk that softened the savage scars on his face. Teyla was standing a few steps above him, and the glare that she had delivered combined with her posture – straight back, head held high – brought to mind the 'Lady' title he'd jokingly bestowed upon her a few days before.

_She really is like a noble, not some god-damned pure-blood supremacist aristocrat but the real deal, the true leaders who dragged the peoples of Earth to civilisation and order whether they liked it or not._ _Of course, the fact she's kinda exotic-looking brings another word to mind as well, Amazon._ _Heh, that definitely fits. _

"I see. I'll keep that in mind." Harry was diverted by the arrival of various officers and NCOs from Level 1, minus Santorini, who was still issuing weapons. Teyla drew Marta aside, and Harry addressed the Marines clustered around the base of the stairs.

"We've got a potential Wraith threat. Marta over there reports seeing a 'shadow', something like what the Wraith projected to us on the ground on Athos." There were mutterings at that, so Harry pressed on. "I want fire-team strength security details on both staircases at Level Twenty-One, checking into the Control Room watch officer every fifteen minutes. Ford, is your platoon done drawing weapons yet?"

"In a moment, sir."

"Good, make it the first of your squads that gears up. Everyone else starts a sweep of the occupied areas of the tower, from the Hangar on down to Level Twenty, same leapfrogging procedure we've been using all week. Got it?"

"Aye sir." _Ah, the Marine chorus, gotta love it._

"Alright, let's be about it, people. Let's get this done." As the Marines dispersed, Sheppard and Halling appeared from behind the conference room, making for the control room. Teyla moved to help Halling, who really didn't need it to Harry's eyes; that man made crutches look like a speed sport. He followed them into the Control Room.

Sheppard jerked his head to indicate that Weir and McKay should have a quick O-group.

"Harry, sit-rep."

"Securing access to control tower and living quarters within five mikes sir, and commencing a full sweep, also by that time." Harry had slid into 'mission mode', now, reverting from the relatively easy-going officer he was in normal day-to-day situations to the cold, hyper-competent operator Sheppard had previously experienced him as when they had crossed paths in Afghanistan. The humour was gone, replaced by an emotionless, professional poker face.

"Good."

"Two more Athosians have reported seeing the 'shadow'," Weir chipped in.

"You know, I don't get that," Sheppard said. "That means the Wraith would be here."

"You don't think so?"

"I don't think they want to just scare us ... when they decide to come, they'll start blowing the crap out of this place with ships."

"So what, the Athosians are just seeing things?"

"There's plenty of other stuff in this city, Doctor." Harry spoke up, indicating the glowing shield unit that was still attached to McKay's chest.

"Tell me about it." The Canadian muttered.

Teyla, who had been talking quietly to Halling, approached their impromptu conference. "Halling wishes to speak to Jinto."

As Weir and McKay set that up, Sheppard pulled Harry over. "I want you to go get hands on with the search. There's no point either of us being here. Once this little pow-wow is over, I'll join you shortly."

"Got it, boss." Harry gave a quick salute and left down the back stairs, just as Halling started calling for Jinto. As he moved down the stairs, he checked to see he was alone before activating his power and 'refreshing' his situational awareness.

Generally he couldn't do this very often, due to the blindingly obvious change of his eyes from green to inky black, but now that he had the chance he pushed out his 'awareness' as quickly as he could. He could only generally 'sense' molecules based on nitrogen, oxygen and hydrogen – the first two made up 99% of an Earth-normal breathable atmosphere, and the latter two combined into water, which was how he had been able to sense the ocean when they arrived. This meant his 'sixth-sense' spatial awareness had to go around walls and objects, but could slip under or around most windows and doors, which were rarely fully airtight even in Atlantis unless the environmental protocols went active - they had a rubber seal around the edge that extended when that went online. He could also sense, and manipulate, the positive-negative charge of the air molecules, which was a major part of his 'storm creation' abilities.

It took a few seconds to re-map the tower, tracking all the moving humanoid 'outlines' inside the perimeter, trying to estimate which might not be Expedition members. Then his senses ran into _something_, and he nearly fell down the next few steps out of sheer shock, and his tendrils of awareness recoiled in instinctive response, backing away from the surprise.

_What the fuck was that! _'That', to his 'inner eye,' was a cloud of super-negative-charged particles, a hole in the air which he could feel _moving_ along a corridor in on one of the lower levels. The Trelawney reference was not lost on him, and usually gave him a moment of humour; now, however wasn't the time.

He stopped where he was, on the landing outside Level 2, and fiddled with his radio for a few seconds. The AN/PRC-148 was a bulkier type than the normal personal radios, and was referred to as the MBITR, or Multi-Band Inter-Team Radio. On Atlantis it was issued to squad leaders and higher, and was looked a bit like a slightly thinner but elongated 'brick' mobile phone with a small screen and keypad, which could be clipped to a belt. Like most modern tactical or blue-light service software-defined radios, it was capable of 'point-to-point' calls, or 'privacy calls' where one user could call another directly without every other user on the net hearing as well. For these calls, each individual radio unit had a specific ID number, and Harry could 'dial' Weir's personal one. Radio waves weren't great to use in an all-metal structure, but they worked well enough.

Upstairs, Dr Weir would be hearing a quiet tone in her headset, not unlike a phone, until she pressed the transmit button. _"Yes, this is Weir."_

"Doctor Weir, this is Captain Potter. This concerns my abilities so you might want some privacy."

Harry could hear Halling's voice now, both in the headset and on the PA, saying something in Athosian, or maybe Ancient – the former was based on the latter, and it could be quite hard to tell them apart, since they both basically sounded like Latin. Weir didn't reply, but moved away until he couldn't hear Halling through the radio any more.

"_Go ahead, Captain."_

"It isn't the Wraith, Doctor. No time to explain, but there's some kind of energy creature moving around on Level Seven, above the checkpoints. No idea how it got past the guards there, but it's well inside our perimeter, and the rest of the company are only just starting from the Hangar bay looking for any potential Wraith, as well as Jinto. Going to take me a few minutes to get down there, so can you check with Grodin to see if he's finished that sensor bypass I asked for earlier, it'd be a good way to avoid explaining how you know about it if you see what I mean."

"_Understood, Captain. I'll ask him now._"

* * *

Up in the control room, Doctor Weir was distracted for a few seconds by Rodney's fainting, which also diverted attention from her little cloak-and-dagger radio call. After checking to see Major Sheppard was dealing with _that_ crisis, she just shook her head and moved over to Radek Zelenka's desk, where the Czech engineer had taken over from Peter Grodin after the British scientist went to physically check on one of the naquadah generators.

"Radek, did Peter finish the sensor program he was working on?"

The mildly hyperactive scientist looked up from his laptop, "Yes, yes he did. Do you want me to start it up?"

Weir nodded. "Yes. Can it distinguish between say, Jinto and a Wraith?"

Zelenka shrugged, and reflexively pushed his glasses back up his nose. "Well, no. The sensors can detect all energy signatures which include life signs, but cannot as far as we know distinguish between human and Wraith, for example. It can detect the difference between something like a naquadah generator and a human though."

_It'll have to do_. "That's fine. Check the control tower first then."

"Certainly, certainly, it will take a few minutes to set up." Zelenka turned back to his laptop, while Weir turned to see Sheppard helping carry McKay down to the infirmary. The Major noticed her looking and rolled his eyes rather eloquently. Then she just stood talking quietly to Teyla and Halling while waiting for more information. The Marines were searching for Jinto – well, and a non-existent Wraith, but she couldn't do anything about that just yet – and there wasn't anything she could do to help with that without the sensors up anyway.

"_Ty vole!_" Zelenka said something in Czech. Weir wasn't entirely sure what it meant, but from the tone it was probably unrepeatable. "There's _something_ really odd here, Doctor Weir. I've got some kind of powerful but small energy signature moving up the stairs to level seven."

"Meaning what, exactly?"

"Well, it isn't a humanoid life form, because I'm detecting just under five hundred signals within normal life sign parameters. Look here –" Zelenka pointed to one of the Ancient screens they'd gotten working, which showed a map of the tower from the side, in 3D and with a floor plan – right now looking at Level Seven, as Radek had said. A nebulous red blob was leaving the stairwell and moving along the floor – it was split into several bigger recreation areas, apparently for larger gatherings or parties, so with everyone not a Marine still mostly asleep, it was fortunately empty.

Weir tapped the transmit button. "Captain Potter, this is Doctor Weir, we have detected an anomalous energy reading on Level Seven, please check it out, over."

"_Storm copies, Level Seven, unknown energy signature. On my way, out."_

* * *

Ten minutes later, Harry was getting mildly annoyed. He'd sprinted down the stairs to Level Seven, and reached it just as the energy _thing_ decided now would be a good time to go _up_ the other stairwell. It'd been moving fairly slowly up until that point, so he'd expected to catch up to it a few levels above. However, the _thing_ decided now would be a good time to start disobeying the laws of gravity, and shot straight up the middle of the stairwell, leaving him well behind. Harry was in very, very good shape, but having to run up a dozen or more floors in full armour and gear plus his weapons which weighed nearly twenty-five kilos was just plain _irritating_. Now, he'd caught up somewhat, with Weir replying to his requests for updates on the _thing's_ position in order to cover for his extrasensory knowledge.

_I'm back where I bloody started. _He burst through the door with his weapon raised onto Level 2 - the infirmary level - where he abruptly stopped. Major Sheppard and Doc Grodin were standing in the darkened hallway looking into one of the designated naquadah generator rooms with utterly bewildered expressions. When he too peered in, Harry really couldn't blame them.

A cloud of ... blackness ... was surrounding the generator, almost entirely obscuring the usually glowing device from view. _What the fuck is that!_ Harry exchanged a glance with Sheppard, and then they both moved back without needing any words, pushing Grodin behind them.

"Uh ... Control Room, this is Sheppard ... please could you remotely shut down Generator Two, over."

"_Say again, Major?"_

"Remotely shut down Generator Two, _now._"

"_Copy that. Standby."_

The hum of the generator suddenly stopped, and the cloud of darkness waited a few seconds before sliding out of the room and back to the staircase, where it promptly shot off down to a lower level. The lights flickered back on.

"Want me to follow it again?" Harry asked, still a little out of breath.

"We can track it, right?"

"Yep."

"Then no. I don't want anyone getting that close to that thing again." Sheppard shook his head. "That was weird."

"Yep." _Less so for me, but still pretty odd, to be sure._

"Let's go back to the Control Room." Sheppard keyed the radio. "All Marines, negative on Wraith presence, say again negative on Wraith. The tango is ... err, something else. Continue searching for Jinto. If you come across a cloud of ... well, a cloud of darkness, avoid contact and report in. Standby for further information on the target, Sheppard out."

* * *

After briefing Weir – with McKay making the rather disturbing observation that this thing might attack humans if they didn't let it feed on the generators – she started to address the Expedition over the PA, but Jinto interrupted, his disembodied voice suddenly appearing in the Control Room. Harry just shook his head at Sheppard when the CO looked around as if he might find the Athosian kid in the room. Jinto's directions led them to a closet that turned out to be a teleportation device, which in turn delivered the Major and McKay to a lab on the north-east pier.

"_We've got Jinto, he's okay."_ Sheppard reported. The others sighed and smiled in relief.

"I'm going to go check in with Ford." Harry said quietly to Weir. "He's on generator-watching duty one level up from here."

"Sure thing, Captain. Let's hope McKay can figure out a way to get rid of this thing."

Grodin had been playing 'hide the generator' with the energy entity for the last half-hour, after the incident outside the infirmary. He was running the 'darkness' around in circles, shutting off generators just as it got to them. Ford and Stackhouse were pulling observation duty on one of them, visually confirming the entity's passage each time. _However ..._

"I hope this thing isn't getting pissed at us." Harry said quietly to Ford as they hung around in the next corridor over.

"_Lieutenant, I'm tracking the entity heading your way." _Grodin announced on the radio. _"You might want to get out of the hall you're standing in."_

"Roger that." Ford mock-glared at Harry as they turned back. "Thanks for jinxing us, sir."

"Hey!" Harry protested, but he was grinning slightly anyway. It was a good sign that Ford was cracking jokes at him – it meant the Lieutenant, at least, was becoming more accepting of Harry's presence as the new XO.

Reading between the lines of Aiden Ford's personnel file had indicated, to Harry at least, that Colonel Sumner had regarded the young 1st Lieutenant as something of a protégé, and had been the first personnel request the late CO had made after being handed the Atlantis assignment. Ford, in turn, had clearly had immense respect – bordering on hero worship, if you were being uncharitable – for the experienced, no-nonsense colonel. Even though Sumner had been less than welcoming to him and Sheppard, Harry could admit that Sumner had been an impressive officer who got good results from his people; the unit was a tight-knit group, with every single Marine always giving 110%, carrying out their duties and drills with a level of precision Harry had rarely encountered before outside the SAS. In fact, they were so well integrated as a unit that often hand signals or just simple glances were all the Atlantis Marines required to coordinate with each other at the squad level.

However, this encouraging development was soon put out of his mind, for as they approached the next door, it slid into place, trapping them in the corridor.

"Err, this is Ford, the bulkhead just blocked our way. There's no panel on the wall, no way to open it that I can see."

"_Roger that."_ Grodin responded. Weir immediately followed with just _"McKay?"_

"_We didn't touch anything."_ The head scientist replied indignantly from a lab which they had discovered had some something to do with the creature. _"It could be the entity causing random malfunctions. Proximity to that large an energy disturbance could cause the Ancient technology to go haywire." _

_Less is more, dammit, he could have said that in half the time._

"_Captain, Lieutenant, double back and try the door on the East side of the hall." _Weir ordered.

Dutifully, they doubled back, but ...

"This door won't open either." Harry announced.

"_Pull open the console on the wall." _McKay again. _"What do you see."_

"Three crystals, vertically arranged."

Harry didn't hear McKay's response, as he'd just put his fingers on the slightly blue-glowing crystals, and was suddenly aware of _something _else, just like in the Jumpers. Information flashed across his mind in a microsecond, much less complex than the flight computers of the gate craft. _Level Three alert triggered – local lockdown initiated – override – yes/no – authorisation required -_

Harry felt like screaming 'I don't have bloody authorisation, open the bloody door' … and surprisingly, the door seemed to recognise this. _Local sensor net accessed – unknown contact – energy construct – threat level – highest – imminent danger to inhabitants – confirm override emergency code 25993 – door opening – _

Stackhouse dived through as the door was still moving, but Ford waited just a little too long, apparently waiting for Harry to go first. _Too bloody noble – Hermione would say that's my shtick, which I'm about to prove again for some idiotic reason. _

Harry spun left, grabbed Ford by both shoulders of his tac-vest and threw him bodily on top of the Staff Sergeant. He was about to step forward himself, but the darkness got to him first.

Aiden Ford was already berating himself for freezing up by the time he landed on top of the training sergeant. He turned around the check the situation, and thank the Captain who hadn't fro- ... _What in the name of ..._

Stackhouse and Ford were treated to the horrifying sight of their XO stood locked in the doorway, just a metre away. Tendrils of almost solid darkness were wrapped around his neck and joints, head thrown back and mouth open in a silent scream, with eyes no longer green but an endless, obsidian black. As they watched, arcs of electricity began jumping between points on his clothing, and smoke started to rise from the under the armour vest.

It lasted maybe ten or fifteen seconds, but it felt like an eternity. Eventually, the darkness withdrew, and the XO collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut.

"_Report!"_ That was the Major, snapping the lieutenant out of his daze.

"Man down! The XO is down! I need a corpsman here, now!"

* * *

Ahhhhh, a cliffie! I'm evil, I know. But frankly, anyone familiar with the show knows there's a lot more to go yet, and frankly what kind of author would kill of the main character in Chapter 5. It's not too hard to work out that Harry will survive! (mostly...{evil laugh}).

As usual, any mistakes are mine. If anyone spots any inconsistencies, plot holes, typos, factual mistakes, etc., PLEASE do tell me; I will listen, check or research the right answer and correct the text. Also _**REVIEW**_ – they rock my world, they really do, honest. **PLEASE REVIEW!**

**For example, **I've recently learned Osprey armour was only issued to British forces in 2006 (SGA starts in July '04), so I've retroactively edited Chapter 4's reference to it as well as the earlier drafts of this chapter, replacing it with the awesomely named - and story-appropriate! - **'Dragon Skin'** armour, a cutting edge – and somewhat controversial – armour set reportedly used by US Special Forces and other SF units.

One final A/N: Yes, I'm aware a nuke has never gone off in Yemen. Roll with it. Government cover-ups are everywhere, man! Get a tinfoil hat! (This is _Stargate_ after all, which is pretty much the ultimate fictional conspiracy really, involving a dozen nations and thousands of personnel. Move over Dan Brown, you ain't got nothing on Brad Wight!)

**TRIVIA**

*** REMF - Vietnam era slang for Rear Echelon Mother Fucker - **basically the guys who did jobs which never put them in danger. It kind of caught on, now everyone uses it to describe uniformed personnel who never see combat but think they know about it anyway - basically, me!

**Macguyvered - **an obvious Actor Allusion I hope, to SG-1's O'Neill, played by Richard Dean Anderson who played MacGuyver for a very long time.

****Oscar Mike **– NATO phonetic alphabet words for the letters O and M, often used as shorthand for saying 'on the move,' particularly if you're American! We Brits don't often use that kind of Hollywood-eque crap since real-life soldiering is deadly serious, and not a Michael Bay movie or Call of Duty, but I decided I was going as much for cool as well as 'realistic' with this story.

*****C-SAR** - Combat Search and Rescue, also known as 'crazy insane people,' who fly at dangerously low level at very high speeds in nearly unarmed transport helos to rescue beleaguered special forces teams behind enemy lines - usually at night, just to make it that much harder. '**Scarecrow**' is a shout out to Matthew Reilly's character 'Captain Shane Schofield', the most badass SOB in the history of military thrillers, even if he does push the believability envelope just a little bit far!

****** SOP** - Standard Operating Procedure - a list of things or rules the CO/XO/squad leader etc expect to be done, followed or observed by the people under their command. Sometimes written down, sometimes not. Eventually, they just become 'the way you do things.'

**Transliterated Arabic dictionary**

_Shokran_ – Thank you

_Afwan_ – You're welcome

_Ma'salaama_ – goodbye

_Ela al'lekaa – _I'll see you soon

_Maasa el'khair – _Good morning

_alz'eyma_ – Leader, feminine

_Aasifa_ – apology, feminine


	8. 7 - City of Wonders, Part 3

**Disclaimer**: I don't own anything.

**Credit** goes to Phoenix Catcher for letting me borrow some of the ideas behind his story, "Cast Between Worlds," found on this site.

So, I reached a certain point, and decided to pump this out early for you guys, since the last section ended on a cliff-hanger – aren't I nice? Its 0100 here, I haven't proofread it properly so there might be mistakes.

A/N 1: NB, part of the AU is altering Harry's childhood – I'm adopting the mildly clichéd HP fanfic device that the Dursley's abuse was far more extensive and more physical than in JKR's canon, rather than just chronic neglect and yelling at him. The reasons will become clear, so please no complaints about not following canon closely enough – if I wanted to do that, I wouldn't have written a crossover story where Harry didn't have any magic, now would I.

A/N 2: I am not a martial arts practitioner, except in my overactive imagination. I have kind of boxed myself into a corner by using Eskrima/Kali, since although it's very cool and obviously Teyla fights that way too, there isn't much specific information on it online, so I'm basically making it up as I go along, and writing fight scenes is hard at the best of times – doing it with little or no detailed knowledge is a lot worse. If anyone has anything to add or criticise, please PM me, and please don't assume everything I write is fact – I'm not Dan Brown.

* * *

**Chapter 5 - City of Wonders, Part 3**

"_The reason lightning doesn't strike in the same place twice is that the same place isn't there the second time." _

_Willie Tyler_

* * *

The medical team were there in less than two minutes, and strapped the XO down on a stretcher before making for the stairs at the run. Beckett was waiting for them in the infirmary, and his team put the RAF officer on the bed in the corner, one of the ones that had been part of the Ancient medical suite when they got here. It was slightly recessed – only about six inches - with a decorative semi-circular arch above the headboard.

The medics quickly removed the body armour and cut off his outer clothing to get at the burns underneath, just as Sheppard, Weir and Teyla arrived from the Control Room.

"What happened?" Sheppard demanded of a clearly shaken Ford and Stackhouse.

"Don't know sir, it kind of ... fried him, there were little arcs of electricity jumping all over him. Still got a heartbeat though. Weak, but there." They could clearly see Captain Potter's skin was burned at least a raw, abnormal red pretty much all over, and singed black in irregular strips running up and down his limbs and across his torso. If he survived this, he'd probably be horrifically crippled for life even with extensive surgery and skin grafts. Beckett noticed them and turned towards the little group to shoo them away.

"Get out! You can come back when I'm done wi–" He was cut off by the surprised shouts of his team, and a musical chime that had sounded from ... the wall?

The bed was one of four that had already been present in this room when they occupied it. Although the expedition scientists had not yet discern any specific reason for their design, the beds were integral to the wall and could not be removed short of a welding torch, so they had simply been used as normal hospital beds, since they were the right size, the smooth cushions could be easily sterilised and the configuration (backrest, height and so on) was adjustable, just like an Earth equivalent. However, if anyone had thought to have a person with the ATA gene touch the apparently decorative arch above the bed, they might have realised it was something more.

Suddenly, a curved bar, about six inches thick slid out of the wall, attached at one end to a jointed, clearly robotic arm. The human medical team jumped back in surprise, as the bar lowered to just above the Captain's forehead and then ran the length of his body in just a few seconds, beams of blue light flickering along his skin, pausing for extra seconds over the burns. Next to the bed, a large panel slid back to reveal a screen which began to display, apparently, the patient's medical data – in Ancient, unfortunately.

More surprises were to come, as the bed's structure now lit up, glowing white. The scanner – for that was clearly what it was to the reasonably tech-savvy Earthers – retracted upwards about half a metre, and then the patient _lifted _off the bed in some kind of anti-gravity field, and slowly turned in mid-air until he was face down, whereupon the scanner lowered and repeated its sweep up his back before retreating once more into the wall. Captain Potter was smoothly returned to the bed in a normal face up position. The glow of the bed strengthened considerably, pulsating slightly as it cocooned him in a gentle white aura.

* * *

Teyla wasn't paying attention to the Ancestors technology. She had eyes only for the Warrior, arriving just as the medical team finished removing his uniform. The 'man down' call had shaken her badly, which had itself surprised her. She had only known this man for a week, but the Captain had seemed so invulnerable, confident he could win any fight but at the same time so modest and understated about his skills – well, relatively speaking at least. She had been looking forward to testing her _Bantos_ against his _Eskrima_ all week – and despite her teasing and bravado, she was certain he would win.

This was, after all, a man who had not only _chosen_ to fight a Wraith Queen at close range – Queens being stronger, faster and physically tougher than even normal Wraith, which were in turn themselves considerably superior to humans in all three traits – but had won the fight in just two strikes. She had no doubt that he would utterly dominate any sparring match they engaged in ... _very, very inappropriate thoughts lie that way, think about something else Teyla! _She was distracted from this deeply personal train of thought, however – but not in a good way.

_Hemera! How much has this man been through!_ As if the prominent scars on his face weren't enough, she could now see several more. Two small, puckered roughly oval red scars were revealed, one on the right thigh and the other low on the left side of the abdomen. Another long white knife scar ran across his left pectoral. However, it was when the bed turned Captain Potter over that she, and several others, gasped in shock.

The Captain's back was a mass of healed-over welts and the thin ridges of _even more_ scars, as well as larger circular ones a few inches across apparently mirroring the smaller ones on his abdomen and leg. _Stackhouse mentioned firearms cause larger wounds on the other side, exit wounds he called them ... Spirits, that means he must have been shot at least twice_.

However, they weren't what drew the eye – instead, a large, intricate tattoo across his shoulder blades partially concealed the ... _what caused those marks, a whip?_ It depicted a red-orange-yellow bird of prey, majestic wings spread wide and wreathed in flame, apparently cawing in victory to the skies, with a lightning bolt clutched in one talon and a pair of familiar black swords in the other. It was surprisingly beautiful and incredibly evocative even to Teyla, who, not being from Earth had no knowledge of what such an image might mean. Even so, it somehow _suited_ him, the artwork as powerful and unique as the man it marked. Under the image scrolled what might have been words, but the writing style was too complex and the view too brief to work out what it said.

* * *

"What in the name of God was that?" Carson wondered, mostly to himself. He approached the bed, and reached out to touch the white glow, more of a semi-opaque cloud really. His hand entered the field, and it contracted away from the intrusion, avoiding contact. Retracting his fingers, Beckett looked around at Weir.

"What's going on? Doctor Weir?"

Weir snapped out of her daze, and looked at the newly-emerged data screen, which was now clearly displaying several diagrams of the human body, with various colour coded bits she didn't have the training to understand but looked like the various circulatory, respiratory systems and so on as well as visual data - the image of the tattoo was superimposed over one of the human outlines. She took five seconds to think before making a decision.

_Rodney's still on the other side of the city, and needs to keep working on the energy creature thing. Need another scientist who speaks Ancient – well, I do, but not well enough for this ... Zelenka, Grodin, Kavanagh off the top of my head. Kavanagh ... No. Just no. Peter's still working on generator tag with the cloud, Zelenka should be free._

She tapped the earpiece. "Radek, this is Weir. Where are you?"

"_I'm still in the_ _Control room, Doctor Weir."_

"Good, drop everything and get down to the infirmary immediately. Some Ancient medical tech just activated, we need translation of a screen and analysis of the machine. Hurry, it's an emergency."

"_On my way."_

Radek Zelenka was down to the infirmary in record time. He took one look at the glowing bed, while Weir quickly described what had happened and decided to start with the screen. Taking Ancient devices apart was one thing, but doing so when there was a person's life that might be put at risk by his tampering was not ethical in the slightest.

Zelenka had spent years as a senior engineer at Area 51 – so long as they could keep their mouths shut, the US government were prepared to recruit scientists from allied countries such as the Czech Republic – while paying a sizeable fee to the government for his services for 'undisclosed reasons' as well as his pretty decent salary. As such, he had been part of the Stargate Project's R & D establishment almost since the beginning, and had had time to learn some of the various languages that the devices he worked with were based on, including Ancient and Goa'uld.

As such, he was considerably more familiar with the technical terms of the language than Weir, who had only had a year or so to learn, and had been devoting much of that time to being as head of the SGC or organising the Antarctic excavation and then the Atlantis expedition.

"That's _vulnaa_ ... wound ... that's _procedenus_ ... procedure, or maybe protocol ..." Radek muttered aloud as he worked thorough the Ancient pictograms. He continued murmuring to no-one in particular for almost half a minute before Beckett ran out of patience.

"Well, what's it doing to him?" Carson demanded.

"What!" Zelenka looked around, startled out of his fascination-induced reverie. "Oh, well, I think ... and this is mostly a complete guess, mind you, that it's gone into some kind of automatic emergency care protocol."

"So it's healing him?" Weir asked incredulously.

"I think so. I can work out the words _subitarvis,_ very close to the Latin for emergency. Then there's _procedendit_, which is best translated as protocol, or procedure." Radek paused and shrugged apologetically. "I'm not great at this, you need a proper translator."

"Marines are escorting one up from the living quarters right now." Sheppard interjected.

"Well then, unless they completely contradict me, I'd say the bed was on some kind of standby, and when you put Captain Potter on it, it recognised he was injured – probably because of his ATA strength." Radek mused aloud. "Then from what you said it scanned him, and is now, according to that screen, has begun healing him."

"Carson, can you check Harry's injuries again?"

The entire medical team clustered around their patient again, scrutinising the electrical burns up and down his limbs through the slightly-obscuring white aura.

"Actually ..." Beckett started, "actually, they look kind of better. Certainly less damaged epidermis, on the surface at least." He turned back to the others. "But from what the Lieutenant said, this was a full-body electrical burn, which it certainly looks like from the outside. He'll have trauma to his veins, arteries, lungs and muscle tissue, disrupted central nervous system, heart arrhythmia, and a few other symptoms associated with severe electrical burns."

"Keep working on that screen." Weir ordered. "Assume that the bed is doing something positive, since after all it is in the medical ward. Major, you and McKay come up with a plan to deal with that energy creature. Get to it people, this thing just took out one of our best, I don't want anyone else to become the victims of this ... darkness."

* * *

_Oh, FUCK that hurt, _was Harry's first thought upon waking. He hadn't yet opened his eyes, and was still half-unconscious, so all he registered was the all too-familiar feeling of heartbeat monitors and an oxygen tube. _Great, another bloody hospital. Kandahar again? _Then, memory returned, and he opened his eyes to see the illuminated segmented panels of the Atlantis infirmary ceiling. He was mildly surprised to find that he was not, in fact, in pain, and neither did he feel the disconnected, rather hazy sensation of being high as a kite on painkillers.

_Must have done less damage than it felt like – and it felt like a lot!_

Slowly, so as not to attract the attention of any well-meaning but irritating medical personnel nearby, Harry raised his head and had a quick look around. Unfortunately ... _not my lucky day. _Beckett spotted him.

"Ah, Captain Potter." Carson's smile was at least genuine, unlike so many other military doctors Harry had been treated with, whose professional expressions unfortunately often looked anything _but_ genuine after day after day of reassuring critically wounded patients. "Welcome back to the land of the living."

"Right." Harry shuffled up further onto his elbows. "How long was I out?"

"About twenty-four hours. You'll be pleased to hear we got rid of that energy creature."

"Oh, good. Why ... doesn't it hurt? That thing got me; last thing I remember is just ... pain. A lot of it."

"Well, we're not entirely sure, but that bed you're lying on," Beckett gestured vaguely at the wall behind him, "appears to be some kind of Ancient healing device. Not sure why we didn't notice it sooner, but when we put you on it, the thing scanned you, then just emitted this ... glow around you. It did that for about eight hours, and was pretty bloody amazing, let me tell you."

"You already are, doc." _Healing device? That sounds promising. _

"Well, yes." Carson grinned, slightly sheepish at his enthusiasm. "You had second and third degree burns pretty much all over your body, Captain. At least eighty per cent."

_Ouch. _"Ah ... that sounds like it'd hurt more than it does right now."

"Yes, it would; be glad you weren't conscious. Anyway, for eight hours we just watched those burns ... decrease. I'm not sure if it's healed your internal trauma, so we'll have to do some tests. I'll just let Doctor Weir know you're back with us, and we'll get started, since you say you're not in any pain?" Carson added, professionalism overcoming his near-childlike enthusiasm for whatever this device was for a moment.

Harry sighed. _Doctors._ "Yeah sure, Carson. Let's get on with it."

* * *

Having been poked, prodded, X-rayed, MRI'd, and had penlights shone in his eyes again and_ again,_ Weir, Sheppard, Teyla and Zelenka showed up, hopefully to rescue him from the extra special circle of hell called 'a full physical.' They let him suffer a little more, though; just for kicks, apparently.

"So, what happened while I was out?" Harry asked as he endured further pointless pokes.

"Well, we found out that the Ancients captured the energy creature to do research on Ascension. You know; higher energy beings and ... suchlike." Sheppard explained, oh-so precisely. "Of course, after being locked up in a small box for ten thousand years plus, their test subject was a little irritable, and hungry – as you found out."

Harry glared at him. "Thanks for reminding me of that."

_I'd say the Cruciatus curse hurt less than that thing._

"Ah. Sorry." Sheppard looked suitably abashed, so Harry let it go.

"And then?"

"Well, then – better brace yourself for this – Rodney saved the day." Sheppard deadpanned, or so Harry thought.

"No, seriously boss, what happened?"

"I'm not kidding!" Sheppard protested. "He really did!"

Harry groaned, to general amusement. "Oh great, because his ego clearly needed more stroking as it was." He glared at Carson again, who was _still_ poking at his ribs for some presumably important medical reason. "Anyway, what'd he do?"

"Surprisingly, he risked life and limb to throw a naquadah generator through the gate, which tempted the shadow to follow it."

Harry thought about this for a second. "Does he still have the shield generator on him?"

"Well, it fell off for a while, but yes, that's what he used to survive without being toasted to a crisp."

"Hmmm. Lucky him." Harry eyed the Scottish doctor again. "You done torturing me, yet Carson?"

"Aye lad, I suppose I am." Beckett turned to Weir and Sheppard. "It would seem the Captain has been completely healed, at least of the injuries sustained from contact with the entity."

"But not previous injuries?" Weir asked, gesturing to Harry's scars.

"Apparently not, although we don't know why. However, he is back to how he was before, as compared to his pre-expedition medical file. So, although I'd like to keep you under observation," Carson sighed dramatically, "I don't really have any justification. If anything odd happens, come and see me."

"Sure thing, doc."

"Now then." Carson continued with a nod, "I'm rather interested in the bed here which healed you, Captain." The others made similar sounds of agreement.

"Uh-huh." Harry thumped the bed cushions slightly with one hand. "Any suggestions?"

"Well ... try touching that arch above the headboard." Zelenka suggested, his accent growing slightly stronger in his excitement, as he clutched a tablet computer more tightly. "That's where the scanning device emerged from."

Harry just looked at the innocuous curved piece of pseudo-plastic dubiously, before pushing off from his sitting position from the bed and reaching unceremoniously out to touch the thing. To the others, it lit up from within; to Harry, it lit up inside his mind as well.

Like the Jumper and the door, he felt and instant mental connection, like a kind of OS program window had opened up in his mind's eye. Unlike the other two, however, it was pretty simple.

_Emergency mode activation – running pre-scan sweep – no patient detected on bed – insufficient power for non-emergency activity – return to standby mode – _

Harry blinked, still unused to the sensation of being linked to something in his very own mind. The Jumper had at least been something relatively familiar – an aircraft – and the door crystals had been very simplistic relative to the Ancient gateship, barely more than a few simple lines of command code, basically just 'open', 'shut', and 'lock'. This device, however, was somehow both at the same time. From the initial touch, it would appear to be very simple, but he felt the _presence_ of something behind it, like most of the programming for the bed-healing-whatever device was shut down, but ready to go. _On standby, I suppose._

"It's on shutdown now, probably ... for power reasons, I think. Can you check if this thing drew a lot of power when it was active?"

"Already have," Zelenka answered immediately, "and yes, the medical level was pulling a lot of power during whatever it did to you. Fortunately, the entity was distracted, first by the failed trap out in the lab on the North-East pier, and then by the Stargate's activation, or else it might have made the Infirmary it's next meal, yes?" Carson blanched slightly, but Weir was more interested in something else.

"You got all that, just from touching it?"

Harry turned back to the group. "Yep, bit like the Jumper and the door crystals just before that thing got me."

"And you didn't think to mention this?" Weir demanded incredulously.

"I did, in my mission report for the rescue op." Harry replied defensively, being at something of a disadvantage dressed in just hospital scrubs and going barefoot. "As for the second, I've been unconscious as you may recall. Between the two, I was busy setting up the detachment."

"Fair enough." Weir relented. "We did bring you because of your ATA strength, amongst other things, and apparently I didn't read that report carefully enough – I think it was about two AM when I got around to it, which might be why. Anyway, start using this little talent, please, Captain, no one else can apparently interface with the technology to that depth. We need to know your limits and the possibilities as soon as possible."

"Yes, ma'am. And sorry, ma'am." Harry shrugged. "I don't think it'd quite sunk in that I was the only person who could do that kind of thing, ma'am."

_Whoops, overdoing the respectful juuust a tad._

"There's a few too many 'ma'am's' in that little speech, Captain." Weir told him with a smile, "but I'll let that slide."

"Yes ma'am, thank you ma'am, very generous of you ... ma'am." Harry replied, with a perfectly deadpan expression. Weir just rolled her eyes and left, taking Zelenka with her.

"You sure you're good to go?" Sheppard asked.

"Yes, sir. Frankly, I feel a lot better than I have in days."

"Good. Take it easy for a bit though; start poking around the Ancient systems from the control room." Sheppard ordered. "Or, you could do paperwork, of course. Choice is yours."

Harry was rolling his own eyes now. "Oh boy, such enthusing alternatives you offer, Major."

"I know, right? I'm just generous that way. Later, Harry." Sheppard departed. Then it was just Teyla.

* * *

"I am glad to see you recovered, Captain Potter." Teyla told him, but the slight upturn of her lips belied her serious tone. "After all, we _still_ haven't had that sparring session. I am beginning to think that _you_ think you might lose ..." she trailed off suggestively.

With just about anybody else – any other man, she amended herself with an internal smirk – she would have expected some sort of showy protest to that insinuation, something along the lines of 'Certainly not!' or 'In your dreams!' Recovering bravado, and all that. However, not from this man.

No, this man just smiled mysteriously. "You keep thinking that, _alz'eyma._ You keep thinking that." Without breaking eye contact, he called, "Hey, Carson, you got my uniform around here?"

The doctor pointed at a pile of clothing on a low table below the foot of the bed. "Spare uniforms – we sort of destroyed the set you had on. One of the Marines collected your armour and guns, Santorini I think his name was, said something about checking them over after your close encounter."

"Thanks Carson." The Captain shrugged off the lightweight hospital shirt after a moment's hesitation, reaching for the uniforms. As he pulled on a dark brown t-shirt, he commented conversationally, "You know, most ladies might have left by now. Bit of privacy, and all that."

Teyla couldn't prevent a positively devilish smile from crossing her features. "I keep telling you, Harry, I'm not a ... lady." She drew it out, maximising the insinuation. _Spirits, what is _with_ me today? Might as well go all the way. _"After all, I've seen most of it already."

Captain Potter looked startled for a moment before his wits returned, and he riposted. "But you haven't seen it _all_, have you?"

Teyla lost it and looked away blushing for a moment before shaking her head and laughing. "Ah, I think I will give you your privacy at this point. You might get ideas."

The Warrior grinned broadly. "The only ideas I'm getting, Teyla, are the ones _you're_ putting there."

_Ooooh, that's a little too close to comfort … change the subject!_

"Anyway," Teyla cleared her throat, only _slightly_ put off. "Tomorrow morning, before breakfast. I want to settle our little competition. Unless some other life threatening crisis intervenes, of course."

"I'll be there, Teyla," was his solemn promise, but with eyes dancing in a way that only made her feel even more flustered.

* * *

Harry watched the beautiful Athosian leader leave with a half-amused, half-speculative look. _I wonder if she's just flirting or if this nascent friendship is going somewhere ... interesting._ However, he was distracted from his thoughts by Carson's barely suppressed snickering from across the room – apparently, he was a regular source of amusement now. _That will never do.__  
_

On the end of a rather piercing look, Beckett raised his hands in surrender. "No need to get mad, laddie. I was just wondering if you were always such a ladies man?"

Harry laughed as he continued dressing."No, not in the slightest. I did spend my sixth-form years in a co-ed military school, though; there were some distinctly, um, _forthright _personalities there. Eventually, the only defence was to stop being embarrassed at the mostly-not-serious flirting and come out of my shell to start hitting back, so to speak. Especially when my best friend was one of the worst of them. Besides, Teyla's a classy lady, right? Got to bring out my A-game."

Carson was laughing as well, now. "Think you're onto something there, lad? Or will you be shot down?"

"Like you probably were in Med School, Carson?"

"Och, low blow. We geeks run the world really, though."

"You keep telling yourself that, doc." Harry shot back as he left to find Santorini and retrieve his gear. "Besides, we're not _on_ 'the world' anymore, you may recall."

* * *

The next morning found Harry up early for the match, again, so he moved to the gym for a quick workout. Since he hadn't gotten back into his on-base workout routine, he just stuck with a basic British military Personal Fitness Test: a mile and half run, best time, and as many sit-ups and push-ups as possible in a two minute period each. On a good day, he could hit slightly over eight minutes on the 1.5 miler – averaging around 4 minute mile speed – and one-hundred twenty reps of the other two exercises, or two a second for two minutes. He'd build up to more intensive workouts later. The rest of the time he spent sinking into his meditative state, clearing his thoughts of any extraneous clutter.

Like the last time, he felt Teyla approach the gym – at the same time as he sensed several other people leave their respective rooms and head the same way as well.

_Crap. Should have expected spectators; the rumours have had a week to do the rounds after all, and Carson heard us yesterday - he's Scottish, which mean's he's pretty much automatically a gossip about anything non-professional, it's not like there's anything else to do in Scotland._ _From the placement … Weir, Sheppard, Ford and the First Sergeant I think. I can put up with that._

Harry disliked fighting in front of anyone who wasn't someone he knew and trusted. Apart from the 'showing off' part, he also preferred not to let anyone get a full handle on his skills – being underestimated was useful.

Teyla got there first. Harry let his eyes return to normal and twisted around. He got as far as "Hi," before his brain caught up with his eyes – and just about short-circuited. Teyla's idea of sparring dress this time around was literally a dress; well, a lightweight calf-length brown skirt slit a long,_ long _way up the thigh paired with a tight-fitting, short-cut tank top, made of some blue-silver patterned material that, ah, accentuated her assets rather effectively. She was also carrying practise staves, slightly different to his but similar enough, and was barefoot.

_Oh boy. Never had to deal with that kind of distraction when sparring with hairy-arse SAS troopers, that's for sure. _

Harry nearly laughed, remembering when Hetty Kirkland had pulled something similar when they were practising at boarding school, when her dad wasn't around to object on seeing her _distract_ him so effectively.

_Well, Hetty was 'forthright', that's for sure._ _I blame teenage hormones for getting my arse kicked then - definitely don't have that excuse now though._

"Uh, _salam_ Teyla." _Top tip for Special Forces linguists – when covering for gaping like a goldfish, use mildly-mysterious Arabic try to recover some semblance of dignity. _"We're about to have company, I suspect," he added.

The door slid open then and Weir and Sheppard entered, closely followed by Ford and Sergeant Major Edward Saito, who quickly took in Teyla's attire then winked at Harry surreptitiously.

_Cheeky bastard._

Saito could get away with that kind of thing, being the First Sergeant and very, very good at his job. Besides, Harry liked the man, and he wasn't the kind of superior arsehole who'd come down on one of his men just for having a little joke at his expense – frankly, if his two direct superiors hadn't been here, he would have come straight back with his own (probably rude) retort. Saito wasn't being sexist; well, maybe a little, he was a macho Force Recon jarhead after all, but he also was a very experienced hand-to-hand fighter according to his file, an instructor in MCMA, Marine Corps Martial Arts, a blend of karate, judo and jujitsu custom-designed for the Corps – and he probably knew _exactly_ how 'distracted' his XO was going to be when they got started. Harry was human, after all. _Well,_ _mostly._

"I didn't realise there'd be such a large peanut gallery, sir." Harry addressed Sheppard while studiously ignoring the SNCO.

"We're all rather interested in this, Captain." Weir told him for the group.

"Ah. Let me guess, there's a betting pool?"

The look on Ford's face said it all. Harry pointed at him, "Ah-ha! Who's the favourite?"

"I don't know what you're talking about, sir." Ford's innocent recovery was _almost_ perfect. Fortunately for him, Teyla interrupted before Harry could push any further.

"What is a 'betting pool,' exactly?"

"Gambling on the outcome of your fight," Weir explained.

Teyla's smile was positively cherubic. "Well, since that's a foregone conclusion, I don't think we need to know the odds, do we Captain?"

"Of course, _alz'eyma _Emmagan." Harry turned to her, and bowed facetiously. "Although not necessarily the way you think."

Since the others were enjoying the show just a little too much, Harry gestured to the mats. "Warm up? Then half-speed to start."

Even though he was still pretty warmed up from before, Harry ran through his own stretches again, watching Teyla do the same. Her set wasn't quite as comprehensive as his; the Athosians had never had benefit of the relatively advanced state of sports science back on Earth, but they covered all the major and most easily injured muscle groups so she wasn't going to strain anything.

Once they took positions, Harry surprised her with a slight bow – apparently that wasn't an Athosian tradition. Nonetheless, it only took her a second or two to return it, before settling into a combat stance.

"I'm going to run through the major strikes of Eskrima in sequence with one baton, half speed, just so you have an idea of the general style and I don't injure you when we speed it up." Harry told her, and waited for her nod.

"One." Right side, inward to the left side of the neck. Teyla parried with her right, stepping away but turning into the strike. "Two." Mirrored on the other side. "Three." Left ribcage/elbow. "Four." Same thing, right side. "Five." Thrust to the stomach. "Six. Seven." Stabs to the left and right shoulder joints. "Eight. Nine." Crouched, strike to the left and right knees/legs. "Ten. Eleven." Back up again, stabs at the right then left eyes/temples. "And twelve." Overhead, down on the crown of the head. Teyla blocked that one with both sticks crossed; a strong block, but leaving her open for...

"Ah, I've still got this one." Harry swung his left hand out, stopping short of clipping Teyla's ribcage as she tried to disengage from above. "Eskrima's flexible, and very adaptable. Although the demonstration was one baton, I will use both; but I also might ditch one or both of the staves and go for a grapple or empty-handed, maybe kicks as well."

Teyla nodded again. "Bantos is roughly similar, without the stabbing strikes. Those do not work very well without a sufficiently long blade, which we never could make. However," she flashed a beautiful, brilliant smile, "Now I can include them."

"Indeed." _Ah, crap. Distractions!_

* * *

Eskrima doesn't really have many specific 'moves'; not, at least, of the kind of fancy complex manoeuvres that have imaginatively descriptive and often faintly ludicrous names – Wing Chun and Kung Fu in particular suffer from this. Knowing many _techniques_ but ignoring the founding _principles_ creates a lethargic and predictable fighter. Anyone who tells you that Eskrima has a set way of doing something is probably wrong.

For using one-handed or dual-wielded weapons most Eskrima masters speak in terms of 'the flow', moving fluidly from strike to parry to counterstrike, staying unpredictable while using quick, short footwork to dodge your attacker's strikes – the term 'eskrima' is a Tagalaisation of 'esgrima', the Spanish word for fencing. There is no one single style of Eskrima; it's an umbrella term for a large number of Filipino Martial Arts, or FMA. It's sometimes called _Arnis, _and is also known as _Kali_ in the USA and Europe. It covers a vast array of potential implements or situations, including impact, edged, flexible or improvised weapons as well as grappling, throws, kicks and, despite its reputation as a two-weapon style, places great emphasis on 'empty-hands' fighting.

All that said, while the key principles of Eskrima are indeed fluidity, stability and simplicity, that doesn't mean that _eskrimadors _don't throw in flashier, more complex sequences aimed at ending the fight quickly.

Unlike most styles that include weapons, Eskrima teaches weapons first, as it actually uses the same movements to execute strikes and blocks with _rattan_ as to do so with no weapons at all, so someone who thinks that an _eskrimador _is helpless without his _rattan_ sticks is in for a really, really _nasty – _and painful – surprise; there's no such thing as being gentle in wasn't designed for non-lethal self-defence but to kill armoured Spanish conquistadors and survive vicious street fights by using whatever was to hand.

The Spanish authorities banned its teaching and weapons so underground practitioners had to adapt to using wooden batons, farming blades like machetes and other shorter, concealable weapons such as daggers or butterfly knives. Because of these laws, and because Eskrima was a 'common folk' fighting style, it was never really written down, and instead passed down through familial or communal ties, and each generation updated and adapted it as the circumstances of the Filipino people changed.

This informal teaching style, which continues today, is very unlike the highly formalized schools of more established Japanese or Chinese martial arts; proclaiming oneself a 'Master' in the Philippines was considered utterly ridiculous until just a few decades ago, as it would more than likely get that person killed in a street fight by other '_eskrimadors'_ looking to make a name for themselves. As a soldier, Harry hadn't bothered learning the modern, formalised competition variants of the art – he had studied Eskrima in parallel with other 'pure' combat arts - Krav Maga and Tae Kwon Do - and his personal variation was designed to put hostile targets down quickly, quietly, and very permanently.

The two fighters carried on running through the basic drills for each form; strikes, blocks, and footwork. That done, Harry and Teyla faced each other a few metres apart across the mats once again.

* * *

Teyla had already admitted to herself that she was probably outclassed – now she was certain. The Warrior moved with an almost inhuman speed and precision born of long practise and incredible physical conditioning – and that was at half-speed. She mentally braced herself, and fell into a defensive opening stance, one baton high and to the front, the other low and to the side. If she judged his character right, he would be an aggressive, dominating fighter who would seek to take the initiative immediately.

She wasn't disappointed. The captain exploded into motion, going from a seemingly-relaxed standing start to a full-on assault, not even bothering with an opening stance which would normally give some basic indication of intent. It was all she could do just to block the first few strikes that seemed to come out of nowhere, chained together variations of the twelve basic attacks he had shown her.

Then, unconsciously, she grinned, nearly laughing in the exuberant joy of the dance; at finding _someone_ at last who could come close to her level - or exceed it. Having survived the initial rain of strikes, she found the rhythm of the fight and began counter-striking, not really serious blows but quick attacks that forced him to slow down and defend himself. The interchange of attacks was far too quick for the audience to really register, let alone keep track of.

Harry had the same look, she noted in passing, as he leaned back to let one of her staves pass harmlessly in front of his face. Then he tensed slightly, and she jumped back out of the way of the low kick intended to sweep her legs out from under her. Teyla quickly re-engaged, but he was already coming back onto an even stance, too fast for her to take advantage of his moment of off-balance after the kick.

They continued testing the other's defences for some time, filling the gym with an irregular but rhythmic _clack-clack-clack _of the _rattan_ sticks meeting. Occasionally they broke apart to circle for a few moments, or one would throw in a more complex attack that would be fended off. Harry had reach, height and strength advantages on Teyla, but she found she could just about match his reflexes and speed, and she was lighter on her feet. This surprised her somewhat, but a detached part of her mind noted as they broke for a moment that no-one, not even her original _bantos_ mentor Charin had been able to push her skills this hard once she finished formal instruction.

Then as she executed another downwards attack with her right-handed weapon, Harry changed his defence. Normally, he would turn into the strike while blocking with his left, right hand beginning some kind of counterattack. This time, he stepped outside her attack – to his left, her right – and dropped his left _rattan _entirely. His right-hand stave struck inward, forcing her weapon down and out of the way across her front as his now free left hand briefly gripped her wrist, preventing her from pulling away.

Then, in a flash, he had weaved his right hand – still holding the _rattan_ – over, around and under the inside of her forearm, trapping her weapon under his armpit and using the leverage to twist her wrist uncomfortably around and down. His left hand pushed down on her elbow, locking her arm straight out and forcing her down on one knee, his remaining _rattan_ coming to rest across the back of her neck in a clear indication of what a blade might do.

The end of the match was so sudden, there was a few heartbeats of stunned silence before Harry asked, though breathing heavily, "Yield?"

"I yield." He released her arm gently, allowing her to stand upright again, and turn to the others. He didn't step away though.

The audience collectively exhaled a breath they didn't realise they'd been holding.

"Wow." Weir stated, too astonished at the raw speed and skill from both fighters she'd just witnessed to come up with anything better. The diplomat just shook her head as if to clear it. "That Wraith Queen didn't have a chance, clearly."

"If you're in a fair fight, you've done something wrong," Harry quipped, to general amusement. "Still want to learn, Doctor Weir?"

"That'd be a yes."

Sheppard tossed the Captain the _rattan_ he'd thrown away. "Room for two students?"

Harry and Teyla shared a look. "Well, we've got two instructors." Teyla gave him another brilliant smile at the compliment. "I won't just teach you Eskrima though, but combine it with a mix of other things; joint locks, throws, knife wielding, all the low, 'unsporting' street fighting tricks you could use on a Wraith in hand-to-hand. They're bigger and stronger than us puny humans, so they'll simply absorb any punches or kicks thrown at them. I'm sure Teyla's _Bantos_ has some stuff to throw in too."

"You want to arrange sessions for the Marines, sir?" The First Sergeant asked, also clearly impressed.

"Give it a few weeks. We still need to learn each other's styles, and then we'll come up with a training programme. Wraith soldiers might prove far too difficult to beat in hand-to-hand, and we'd have wasted training time and effort on something unnecessary."

"I hope you don't intend to test that personally, sir? At least, not deliberately?" Saito inquired cautiously. _He wouldn't, would he?"_

"Who else will?" Harry smirked, then shook his head, to Teyla's hidden relief. "But no, I'm not going to deliberately engage a Wraith at close quarters, Top. Not without trying to shoot it first, at any rate."

"Glad to hear it." Sheppard told him. "Anyway, back to the grind, marines. See you at chow." With that, the others left as a group, leaving her with her opponent.

"It has been a long time since anyone has bested me in a fair fight, Captain." Teyla said, turning to Harry, then suddenly realised how close he was – and how much taller. She only came up to just above his broad shoulders, and he seemed to tower over her for a second before taking a step back away from her.

"Sure as hell wasn't an easy win though, Teyla." He grinned at her, clearly happy to have found a worthy training partner. "Might go your way next time," he added over his shoulder as he went to find the bag he'd brought up.

"Oh, it will, Captain. Maybe not next time, but some time, soon."

"Your determination does you credit, _sadiiqi_."

"That is not one I have heard before?"

His smile returned, full force. _Spirits, that smile again._ "_Sadiiqi_ is the Arabic for a friend, specifically female actually. A man would be _sahiibi_."

"Ah." _Why does him using that word seem like some kind of step? Remember, don't push too much. _"Was it hard to learn? Arabic, I mean."

"Yes, took me a few years to get it down properly, and that was with good teachers and full immersion in Arabic-speaking countries. It has sounds and letters that don't exist in English at all, and those can be hard to pin down. I also speak the Afghani languages Pashto and Dari passably well, and can just about get by in Farsi and Urdu– I can't write in any of them though, just speak, and read in Pashto and Dari. All five – including Arabic – are spoken reasonably close together geographically on Earth, but they're all quite distinct."

By now they were heading out of the gym and towards the stairs. "There was something I've been meaning to ask…" Teyla began, unsure of how personal this question might turn out to be. "When you were injured two days ago, in the infirmary I saw you had some artwork across your back? A tattoo, yes?" The Warrior stiffened, almost imperceptibly.

"Yep." His tone was a little forced.

_Great start, Teyla. Might as well continue, since I've already made a hash of it._

"Can I ask what it is of?"

* * *

Harry wasn't entirely sure why he answered. Perhaps Teyla's friendship meant more to him than he'd consciously realised.

"The image is of a Phoenix, the immortal fire-bird. It's a mythological creature that crops up in most ancient cultures on Earth – an _anka_ in Arabic cultures, the _fenghuang _in China, or a _ho-oh_ in Japan. It is immortal because every time the Phoenix dies, a hatchling is immediately reborn from the ashes of its predecessor. It's associated with the Sun, and is considered to be symbolic of quite a lot of things; timelessness, renewal, resurrection, redemption, those sorts of things." _Definitely not going to mention I've met one, or been saved by it. Hey, I wonder if Fawkes can manage intergalactic travel?_

"And the writing beneath it?" _She's_ _persistent, that's for sure. But j__ust curious. Sorry Teyla, too personal._

"I'd rather not say."

"Oh … I apologise, Harry; I let my curiosity get the better of me."

"Don't worry about it. Maybe someday." Harry smirked as an idea came to him. "Tell you what; I'll tell you what it says the day you beat me in a sparring match."

Teyla's answering smile lit up the darkest depths of his soul. "I will hold you to that, Harry."

* * *

**REVIEWREVIEWREVIEWREVIEW PLEASE REVIEW!**

For a visual representation of the slick finishing move Harry pulled on Teyla, go to Youtube and search for '_human weapon eskrima judo krav maga,_' and the top video should be the one I found it in. It's about 1 minute 20 seconds into the video.

I really, really tried to work a Chuck Norris reference into the post-fight scene, after which Teyla would ask 'Who is Chuck Norris,' to general amusement, and maybe a punch line along the lines of "So Chuck Norris _isn't _the ruler of the Multiverse" or some other Chuck Norris 'fact'. Unfortunately, due to my own rules about sticking to realism wherever possible, I have to acknowledge that Chuck Norris facts did not become mainstream until late '05 at the earliest, and SGA Season 1 is in '04. *sad face*Also, it would have been a bit artificially shoehorned in, to say the least.

Hemera is the Ancient Greek goddess of the day, one of the first 'primordial deities' who gave birth to the Titans. I needed some more Athosian invective other than 'spirits!' (which is rather … _Turian – _shout out!) and 'Ancestors!', both of which were being overused.

I'm borrowing some of the less well known Earth mythology to backfill the Athosian's own beliefs, which are more Shinto-style ancestor-veneration than Christian-style worship which I am familiar with, but they also look to the Alterans/Atlanteans/Ancients as gods, so maybe Hemera was one of the Ancients who returned to Earth, who knows? Although the mythological references do kind of makes Teyla's internal monologue sound a bit like a certain Princess Diana of Thermiscera (aka the DCU's Wonder Woman), I _did _make comparisons to the Amazons during City of Wonders Part 2, so that's appropriate I suppose.

* * *

**Transliterated Arabic dictionary **

Pronunciation varies between national/regional dialects; capitals for pronunciation stress/emphasis as I think it is, advice welcome.

_Shokran_ – Thank you (SHO-kran)

_Afwan_ – You're welcome (AF-wan)

_Ma'salaama_ – goodbye (mah-sal-AA-ma)

_Ela al'lekaa – _I'll see you soon (eh-la al-LEH-ka)

_Maasa el'khair – _Good morning (mAA-sa el-Kair)

_al'zeyma_ – Leader, feminine (al-ZEY-ma)

_Aasifa_ – apology, feminine (ah-HASi-fa)

_sadiiqi –_ friend, female (sa-DEE-kee)

_sahiibi – _friend, masculine (sah-HEE-bee)

_muharib _– warrior, masculine (mu-HA-rib)


	9. 8 - Countdown

**Disclaimer**: I don't own anything. Surprise, surprise.

**Credit** goes to Phoenix Catcher for letting me borrow some of the ideas behind his story, "Cast Between Worlds," found on this site.

**GLOSSARIES (or the 'Codex', for Mass Effect fans ;)** The end of each chapter now has a military terms glossary and an Arabic phrase list. If I've used an acronym/technical term – they are marked in **BOLD** in the text, it's probably there. If not, well, Google's always right!

On previous chapters: I re-read my earlier output and found a myriad of typos and missing full stops and stuff like that – I assume managed to get them lost somewhere between my computer and the server. I spent quite a bit of time correcting them, as well as updating the spelling and breaking up longer sections into extra paragraphs to make it easier to read.

This chapter's pretty lacklustre, which is why it took me so long to publish it. I'm still not happy with it, but here it is.

Thank you to tremerid for citing in his/her review the following very appropriate poem.

* * *

**Chapter 6 – Countdown**

_Out of the night that covers me,  
__Black as the pit from pole to pole,  
__I thank whatever gods may be  
__For my unconquerable soul._

_In the fell clutch of circumstance  
__I have not winced nor cried aloud.  
__Under the bludgeonings of chance  
__My head is bloody, but unbowed._

_Beyond this place of wrath and tears  
__Looms but the Horror of the shade,  
__And yet the menace of the years  
__Finds and shall find me unafraid._

_It matters not how strait the gate,  
__How charged with punishments the scroll.  
__I am the master of my fate:  
__I am the captain of my soul._

Invictus, by William Earnest Henley

* * *

**August 1st, 2004 – University of Cambridge (Classics Faculty), United Kingdom, Earth. **

Cambridge University is the second oldest university in the English speaking world, and the third oldest surviving university in the world, which made it a very appropriate place to study ancient languages and history, in Hermione Granger's opinion. The Classics Department was a very recent bit of construction, a two-story brick and glass building with a well-appointed, if rather compact library dedicated to all things ancient; the main university library, just a hundred metres away, held the majority of the Classics department's books and other resources, but the faculty library was considerably less well-known or utilised, making it an ideal place to spend long days buried in research into ancient cultures.

The once-upon-a-time 'Brightest Witch of her Generation' had decided, without needing much encouragement, to partially follow Harry's route into the Muggle world once her time at Hogwarts was done. His former guardian, the Ministry liaison Jeremy Wilson had come through once again, rushing Hermione through GCSE and A-Level exams that she'd blitzed in even less time than Harry had. She'd always had an analytical mind and prodigious knowledge far beyond other children her age; frankly, she probably would have done well enough to pass on GCSEs even when she was entering Hogwarts at age eleven, and had kept as up-to-date as best she could on sciences and modern languages during the holidays - and for Hermione, the 'best she could' was 'very well' for most people. Unlike her two best friends at Hogwarts, academia was something she not only excelled in but actively enjoyed.

Hence, barely six years after the Final Battle, following a year for the GCSE/A-Levels, three years of undergraduate study and a year long Master's course, she was finishing her (first) doctorate. In the previous five years of university she had learned a large number of classical and ancient languages in record time, including Latin (already learned when at Hogwarts; very useful for spell creation), Attic Greek, Egyptian hieroglyphics, Sanskrit, Hebrew, Aramaic and a half-dozen others, as well as developing a depth of knowledge on their respective cultures' history and society that had her very impressed tutors, all extremely capable academics in their own regard, shaking their heads wondering why _they_ didn't manage that kind of self-motivation when they were bright-eyed young students.

Unlike Harry, however, she had not completely cut herself off from the magical world. She had a job offer from Gringotts on their cursebreaking department for after she graduated, and had stayed in contact with the survivors of the battle – Neville and Luna primarily, but also with other members of the old DA group. She had continued to exchange letters with Harry intermittently – due to the nature of his new work, sending owls all the way to whatever war zone he was now in was not possible, so they had to use the British Forces Post Office; not the most reliable of intuitions. The occasional phone call from him made it though, as well as one or two visits when he was on leave, although the last of those had been nearly two years before.

She couldn't say she entirely approved of his choices – the Harry she had known at Hogwarts had wanted nothing more than to be 'normal', to avoid all the fame and notoriety and vanish into obscurity; which, Hermione supposed, the latter of which he had managed well enough with the secrecy of the SAS, but the hardened soldier her friend had become was a far cry from what the teenage Harry had meant.

However, she knew _why_ he had gone down that route, and she would never abandon their friendship after what they – and especially Harry – had been through. His 'saving people thing' as she had labelled it all those years ago, was an integral part of who Harry was, and how he defined himself. He would never have been happy working as some Ministry Auror, (too much paperwork, as she'd heard from both Susan and Neville) or some other position in the still-insular but rapidly-modernising Wizarding World. Although she would never believe he had a death wish or anything like that, it was obvious from his quiet determination to give everything he had to his military career he would never be happier than when in the thick of the fight, standing up both for what he believed in and for those who could not do so themselves.

She had, however, found herself doing less and less magic in the last few years though, mostly due to being around non-magicals near-constantly (non-mag being the term replacing the derogatory 'Muggles'). Due to the complete and total destruction of the Pureblood supremacy movement and the quiet relaxation of the Statue of Secrecy, England was a rather safer place for muggleborn wizards and witches to live. As such, she had not warded her student house to hell and back like she would have done if Lucius Malfoy and his ilk still walked the Earth, and therefore was not aware that even as she worked in the library, a mixed team of Aurors and Section M agents were doing a sweep of her house, as part of a high-level background check.

Integration had brought many changes to Magical England – the rest of the Wizarding world was watching in either derision or anticipation to see how the experiment would work out, especially given the complete backwardness magical England's society had been based on before. MI-5's Section M was still running point for Her Majesty's Government, having assured the Ministry, Wizengamot and the ICW that they would not reveal the existence of the magical parallel culture without the results of a referendum _proving_ a majority of wizards and witches wanted it to happen. The Security Service was, fortunately, an organisation that was _very_ good at keeping secrets.

Other changes had come. The Minister for Magic, once a quasi-independent head of state, was now firmly returned to being a cabinet-level position under the Prime Minister, as it had originally been intended. The difference now was that the Minister was required to take a magically binding oath to enforce that subordinate status, which ensured that the PM would be fully informed as to the situation of the magical population, and thereby avoiding the kind of incompetence and cover-up perpetrated by Cornelius Fudge – and if the PM thought the Minister was doing a bad job, he could now fire them. A slight wrinkle in that was that all other ministers were appointees, whereas the magical population directly elected theirs, but that had been smoothed over quickly in a new Constitution, specifically written for Magical Britain, which with no purebloods around to protest was swiftly approved in a rapidly-organised popular vote.

Law enforcement had been altered beyond all recognition as well. The Aurors had always had basic magical forensic tools at their disposal, but the 'scientific method of policing' that underlay the practices of modern non-magical police forces was unheard of – not surprising, considering they mostly hadn't heard of science at all. Section M, no longer restricted to operating on the fringes of wizarding society, had been quick to apply the Security Service's own brand of law enforcement; a rather different model to the norm, as it turned out, since MI-5 were actually an organisation of spies trained as spy-catchers rather than actual police.

Their techniques, combining conventional non-mag policing with the rather darker practices of turning informants, long-term surveillance warrants and strategically-applied blackmail went thorough the remaining Wizarding criminal underworld like a buzzsaw, as the magical criminals had never had to deal with supposed 'law enforcement' who turned out be far more cold-bloodedly relentless, methodical and incorruptible than any Auror except Alastor Moody. The DMLE had watched in amazement as MI-5 operatives broke case after case without even having to use Veritaserum on the suspects – well-applied behavioural analysis and interrogation techniques worked just as well on wizards as it did on KGB agents, if not better – the KGB (now FSB) at least trained their people to resist; the hapless wizards had no chance.

Thus, the mixed squad that was currently breaking into Hermione's house. For security clearances, the British government had a number of different levels of background check, as might be expected. These were imaginatively called 'Security Check' (SC), 'Security Check Enhanced' (SCE) and 'Developed Vetting' (DV). Only the most upstanding, trustworthy agents were assigned to DV work – even if something potentially embarrassing was discovered, the investigating agents _never_ disclosed what they found unless it might be considered professionally compromising for the one being checked; i.e., potential blackmail material for other espionage agencies. If it wasn't, then any embarrassing personal secrets uncovered were just that – personal.

That said, the purpose of the DV check was to dig up _every_ little secret, every possible angle of attack, and at the end, to make sure that the person being checked 'knew that _they_ knew' everything – and such, had nothing to fear in revealing that someone_ else_ might be trying to blackmail them with the aforementioned secret.

Although the agents didn't know why, they did know they had been ordered, by the PM's office no less, and on the request of the American Embassy, to conduct a variant of a DV check on one Miss Hermione Jane Granger, soon to be PhD, Anthropology and Ancient Languages. Normally, the subject of the check was aware they were being vetted, but not always, and not in this case.

The Aurors had carefully neutralised the basic alarm ward set and magical locks their subject had put up, then watched attentively – since this was part of their new training regime – as the MI-5 security 'vetters' moved carefully through the apartment, taking dozens of photos, and carefully replacing any object they did had to move exactly the way it was. They went through her mail, personal accounts, drawers, books (many, many books), and diary (magically encrypted, but one of the Aurors quickly created a replica to be broken into later by the Unspeakables).

Other parts of the background check process included surveillance on the person in question, talking to neighbours, school friends, and eventually close family before a lengthy interview with Miss Granger herself. The check would take a week; more if they found something suspicious, which was not expected in this case. The life story of a twenty-four year old genius could only hold the agents' attention for so long.

* * *

**August 1st, 2004 – City of Atlantis, Lantea, Pegasus Galaxy - Level 3 Dining Hall**

"Listen in."

Captain Potter's voice cut through the dining room's low buzz of chatter, which quieted quickly as Marines, scientists and a smattering of Athosians focused on the XO. The large room was pretty full - the department heads and all the various scientists and marines pipped for duty on exploration teams were present, as well as a sizeable fraction of the rest of the military detachment; platoon leaders, platoons sergeants and squad leaders were all here too. It was the late morning of the second day after dealing with the energy entity.

"This briefing will cover the **ORBAT** of the Atlantis Expedition, as well as the current strategic picture and our own Concept of Operations, laying out defensive procedures, future intentions, current strategic objectives and operational security requirements. Present at this briefing are the expedition command staff, all expedition department heads, all designated recon team members, and other personnel who will fulfil specific responsibilities to be outlined in this briefing. If you _don't_ know why you're here, I'm sure all will become clear shortly"

"First, the Atlantis Reconnaissance Teams. Team personnel were decided by the CO, Doctor Grodin, the First Sergeant, Teyla and myself, so we had a representative for all three groups – military, scientists and Athosians – that will make up the teams. We have done our best to judge your individual and team strengths and weaknesses, and believe the current list constitutes the best mix. Any difficulties or requests for changes, come see me or the First Sergeant. Team callsigns will use the prefix '_Alpha_,' followed by the team number. Team leaders use the additional callsign suffix '_Actual_.'" Harry looked around to check that was understood. The Marines clearly got it; civilians not so much. "For those unfamiliar with callsigns, I will give an example. Major Sheppard is on Team One, and is the team leader; hence his callsign on the net is now '_Alpha One Actual_.' Atlantis itself, as the home base and radio control station, will use the callsign '_Zero'. _Other personnel such as Doctor Weir will get their own callsigns to distinguish them; for example, my callsign is 'Storm.' Clear?"

"Out of interest, what is my callsign, Captain?" Weir asked.

"As I've chosen to mostly follow British military tradition on this, ma'am, your callsign is now '**Sunray**'_._" Harry told her.

"_Sunray_?" Weir sounded slightly incredulous.

"Yes ma'am." Harry held a straight face despite Weir's withering look of disbelief, turning to Saito. "Back me up here, First Sergeant."

The **SNCO** nodded, also managing to keep a grave and serious demeanour. "Yes, ma'am that is in fact what the Limeys call the most senior person on the net."

"Okay." Weir shrugged. "I'll deal. Guess I'll just have to brighten up everybody's day, huh."

That got a round of laughs, Harry was pleased to see. Morale had been up-and-down a bit with the initial difficulties, but the resolution of the energy entity crisis and the possibility of having access to some extremely advanced medical technology had raised spirits considerably, not least amongst the Marines, who were going to be the most at risk of injury in the field.

"Personnel assignments. AR-1, callsign Alpha One. Team leader, Major John Sheppard with Lieutenant Aiden Ford, Teyla Emmagan and Doctor Rodney McKay. AR-2, callsign Alpha Two, led by Staff Sergeant John Stackhouse, with Dr Andrew Corrigan, Halling Celsus, and Lieutenant Kenji Yamato. AR-3, callsign Alpha Three, led by Staff Sergeant Bradley Bates …"

Harry kept his eyes up and only occasionally looked at his notes, holding his audience's attention. Giving orders or briefings was often both boring and time-consuming, but the British Armed Forces had it down to a fine art by this point. Clear headings and content, hold their eyes without looking down at your notes too much, don't speak in a monotone, don't stutter, emphasise key points, keep them all focused on task to get the information across in an understandable format, and try, try, _try_ to look somewhat enthusiastic about the whole shebang A good set of orders will allow even the most boneheaded squaddie to easily understand the general situation, the plan and his part in it.

In Harry's opinion, it remained to be seen whether or not it would work on room full of multiple PhD's. He had a five-dollar bet with Sheppard that it wouldn't.

"Situation, enemy forces. The Wraith are the primary aggressor. The scientists are still combing the ancient database for intel, but it's going slowly. What we have found relates mostly to their physiology, but not to their strategies, tactics, numerical strength, equipment or weaponry. What we do know is this: they are on average bigger, faster and stronger than you - do not get into close quarter battle unless you have to. One strike from the Hive Queen cracked two of my ribs and that was with cutting-edge body armour on, so do not try your luck unless you have to. We give you guns for a reason; please use them." _Some more laughs. Good._

"The Wraith have been observed using shoulder-fired stun weapons that will incapacitate in one hit. Their aircraft, designated 'Darts', have demonstrated a 'culling beam' that will kidnap you and store you in stasis to be fed on and/or interrogated later; do not get caught in it. If you see a Wraith Dart coming in on a straight, low attack run towards you, scatter away to either side of its flight path. The beam doesn't seem to be much wider than three or four metres at ground level, so with good observational skills and situational awareness you should have enough warning to get out of the way. The aforementioned Darts are at least partially vulnerable to 5.56 LMG bullets and higher calibres, and can be destroyed completely with surface-to-air missiles - teams with a perceived high likelihood of encountering them will be issued Stingers in addition to your standard issue AT-4s.

"Historical records indicate the Wraith overcame the Ancient's defences by weight of numbers rather than superior technology, although their tech level is of course above our own. To that end, we are going to take advantage of the Ancient technology we already have to offset that. Four eight man Rapid Reaction Teams have been designated from the Marines not immediately slated for offworld duties, who will, if feasible, deploy through the gate in cloaked jumpers to extract teams in enemy contact that are cut off from the gate. Sergeants Markham, Matthews, Cole and Ramirez, you all have the ATA gene and have been pinged as **NCOICs** for these rapid reaction teams, and in the next few days you will undertake pilot training in the jumpers with me. One RRT will be on high readiness alert at all times. Given the SGC's record ... I'm expecting at least some action." Harry looked around, to further chuckles from some of the Marine NCOs who were veterans of the programme.

"If I am available, I intend to also deploy with the RRT. If possible, the medical department might want to consider putting together an away team of field medics in case any casualties can't be easily moved from offworld and need treatment on site." Harry looked at Carson, who nodded thoughtfully.

"Lieutenant Morales, I know you're slated for an exploration team but I want to liaise with you about deploying mortar and Javelin teams in the Jumpers as well. Come see me later to brainstorm that." Morales nodded and made a note on his pad.

"Gate defence will be augmented with the emplacement of two M2 Browning HMG's in the gate room this afternoon, with armoured defensive positions to be built up around them to give cover from incoming fire. We are also considering issuing Ancient personal shields to ATA personnel if Dr McKay can get the rest of them to work."

"Going to take a while." McKay grumbled, the 'not eating or drinking' thing still fresh in his mind. "The Ancient's apparently didn't think to leave a charger around."

Weir interrupted for a moment, "Although very useful, the _small_ shields aren't top priority. I'd prefer to get the city shield up first, Rodney." McKay nodded, and Weir looked back at Harry to continue.

"Situation, friendly forces. Although I've already touched on this, I'm going to summarise our resources as of now. Expedition military forces comprise one reinforced USMC Force Recon company organised into three rifle platoons, one weapons platoon and a headquarters group, 175 men in total. There are two hundred twenty seven scientists and ninety six Athosians in the City as well, making for a lovely rounded total of five hundred. Current military hardware includes the heavy weapons we brought, as well as fifteen fully-functional Atlantean ships in the Jumper bay."

"Strategically, our aims are now intelligence gathering and alliance-building, by which I mean making friendly contact with other peoples of the Pegasus galaxy with an eye to friendly relations, hopefully at least trade for food, technology or, possibly, strategic alliances. Teyla and the other Athosians who have volunteered to help us will introduce their respective teams to their offworld friends - also, we'll be reaching out to various other Athosian tribes on other worlds so that Teyla and Halling can pass along news of the Wraith awakening and introduce them to us. Those twelve missions should make a fairly gentle start to our operations here in Pegasus. No enemy contact is expected but don't let your guards down. However, all teams, no matter your primary mission, should keep in mind that our number one objective is the obtaining of a Zero Point Module power source. Should specific intelligence on the location of such an object be discovered, you can expect that it will become our primary objective immediately.

"Those marines and scientists not pinged for offworld teams will, of course, continue to explore the City of Atlantis. You _will_ play it safe, people, and don't go touching any strange things you don't yet understand please, if only for my sake." Some chuckles again. "Once again, anything you discover might help us in the fight against the Wraith. If it doesn't kill us all first."

"CSCM, counter-surveillance control measures. Offworld teams _will_ maintain operational security on the location of Atlantis. Do _not_ even mention the city's name, or that we're from a different galaxy except in the most general terms to those you encounter. This city is both our weakest link and our ace in the hole, people. If it is compromised, we'll die, it's as simple as that. We're sitting bare on the surface, with no shield or access to the defence systems at this time. If the Wraith find us here, the best case scenario is that we abandon and destroy the city to prevent the evil space vampires from reaching Earth through the Stargate – and the database has confirmed that this is the only one capable of dialling an intergalactic address, so we'll be stranded in Pegasus anyway. Worst case, we're caught by surprise, we all get fed on, and the Wraith access Earth and the rest of the Milky Way. Neither of those are very good, are they?" A round of shaking of heads. "Good, we're agreed. It's up to you to stay vigilant and deny the Wraith that intel. _Do not break __**OPSEC**_,whether that is on the radio, talking to offworld contacts or even in your goddamn dreams. Questions?"

"Will the other Athosian tribes be invited back here too, sir?" _Bates, paranoid as ever I see. Well, he _is_ the security chief; it's pretty much why he exists._

"Doctor Weir?"

"If they are under threat or believe they will be in the near future, then yes, the offer will be extended." Weir said. Bates looked unhappy, but said nothing further. "I am aware that will put strain on our supplies and internal perimeter but I am not going to pick and choose who we protect. If we need to take the other Athosian clans in, we will." Weir looked at Harry. "I'm adding another key objective, Harry. Locate and scout a few worlds we can use as Alpha and Beta Sites. As you said, while defenceless at present Atlantis is our greatest asset and I would rather not risk it carelessly. If we need to help protect others from the Wraith, we will resettle them offworld if possible."

"Does that mean you will ask us to leave?" Teyla asked, but Weir reassured her smoothly.

"No, Teyla. In light of the early friendship between our peoples, and the fact you and others have volunteered so selflessly to aid us here in Pegasus, the City of the Ancestors will always be open to both your and the other Athosians tribes."

_Wow. She is a fast talker, isn't she? That was slick. _

Teyla inclined her head in acknowledgement and Weir looked back at Harry once more. "Anything else?"

"Yes, sub-unit missions and tasks, i.e. what you're all going to be doing for your first missions in the next couple of days. Teams one, two, three, five, seven, eight and ten have Athosian members; your first missions will be to do the rounds of other twelve tribes and make friends; Team leaders see me after this to receive your specific mission orders. Teyla will give you a message to give to the other clan leaders since she can't meet all of them right now, although if they request such a meeting we'll set that up in the next week or so. However, at Major Sheppard's request, AR-1 will be heading back this afternoon to the planet the prisoners from Athos were rescued from as their first mission – this mission is considered high risk, so Sergeants Walker and Markham will be reinforcing you. Any teams I haven't mentioned, we are still generating missions out of the database addresses for you at this time, so standby for updated Warning Orders coming at you today and tomorrow morning. Team One, your H-hour is at 1330 hours, succeeding teams to depart at thirty minute intervals. Let's get out there and get busy people, this is what we came to do. That is all."

* * *

Five minutes before Major Sheppard's departure time, Harry was standing with Lt Morales under the arch of the Stargate, discussing the placement of the Lieutenant's heavies. On Morales advice, they were placing the two on gate defence at different angles from the gate – one M2 Browning HMG on the lower level below the control room windows to fire 'through' any targets and the other up on the balcony rail by the conference room to fire 'over' any protective shields they might bring though.

AR-1 and their two extras appeared from the door under Weir's office, where the equipment/gear room for the offworld teams had been placed, the military guys and Teyla fully tooled-out in the charcoal-on-black military colours and McKay in the scientists' rather unsubtle blue-on-tan. Harry had decided to switch back to his own uniform; it was more comfortable and practical than the Expedition ones, and his saving of Ford and Stackhouse at extreme personal risk as well as the rescue operation the previous week had now earned him the Marines' respect in his leadership and courage; the officers and SNCOs had made it subtly clear the previous evening at dinner he was now 'in', even if he wasn't 'of the Corps'. Wearing his own uniform would be his own subtle reminder to them that he _was_ from a different unit, with a different 'esprit de corps' and background that he was and proud enough of to display openly.

As such, he was dressed in Multicam BDU's with an olive green work belt and thigh holster; the tucked-in combat shirt's sleeves were folded up above the elbow to just below his **TRFs**; standard British practice when not winter or indoors. Even though the Multicam was not, technically, the uniform of the British Army, it was _his_ uniform, and in some indefinable way it felt _right_, more so than the Atlantis ones. He'd always defined himself as being a bit different, a unique individual in an already elite unit; perhaps _the _elite unit. Call him arrogant, but the distinctive pattern was his way of displaying that bit of pride.

"…that's fine, Hector. I'll talk to Santorini about the mortars, and you shift those fifties up here in the next couple of hours."

"On it, sir." Morales saluted, and Harry returned it although neither was quite up to parade ground standards, before they split up and Harry walked over to the offworld team.

"Ready, boss?"

Sheppard nodded. "Heading up to the hangar. Maybe this time I'll work out how you get the Jumpers to work so well." The Major's ATA strength was just fine to fly and work the Gateships' systems, but Harry knew Sheppard's inner pilot's competitiveness made it irritating for him that he couldn't access the deeper levels of interaction his second-in-command could manage instinctively.

"Hope so, sir. I don't want to be the only person capable of doing that around here. Otherwise I'll be spending all my time running around touching stuff for pushy scientists, and not doing any actual work."

"We're not that bad." McKay huffed. Harry just gave him a neutral look that adequately conveyed his total disbelief.

"Anything else?"

"No sir, that's about it. Good luck and good hunting."

Harry elected to watch AR-1's departure from the walkway between the control room and Weir's office; seeing him leaning on the railing there, the expedition leader came out to join him.

"How's it going?"

Harry grimaced, "You know that feeling, like you're waiting for the other shoe to drop?"

"Oh yes. Like someone's in the process of outwitting me in a negotiation."

"I'm definitely getting that right now." Harry shrugged, rolling his shoulders back. "Only reason I can think of is that SG-1's first, second or indeed third mission didn't exactly go according to plan."

"True. But that doesn't mean the Major's team will automatically get into trouble."

"Perhaps. I suppose I'm just not used to working this … blind. I know Sheppard isn't."

"Meaning …?"

"Meaning that although that gate down there is obviously a fantastic discovery and resource, it limits what we're used to. We've got no satellite coverage, no drones surveillance, none of the tricks that make us Special Forces types damn near omniscient in warfare back on Earth; hell, we can't even get reliable comms with the offworld teams unless the wormhole is open – meaning if they get into trouble and can't reach it to dial out, we can't send them backup until it's way too late." Harry shrugged. "Makes those RRT's I just created a bit redundant. I'm still adjusting to the operational environment, I suppose; it's just that it's a very limiting one."

"The SGC did well enough."

"From one perspective, sure. On the _other _side of the coin, they got us into a _very_ one sided war and nearly destroyed Earth several times. Sure, they repeatedly pulled miracles out of nowhere, and if Major Carter received a promotion for each time she did so she'd be the President by now, but there were a lot of mistakes made that shouldn't have been."

"I don't mean to be insulting, Captain … but that sounds remarkably like Senator Kinsey."

To her surprise, Harry laughed. "Not quite. It sounds remarkably like what Senator Kinsey said for _public_ consumption, because it was the easiest way to cast doubt on the SGC's efforts. We both know what his real objective was – control over the Gate for his own and his associates' profit."

"True. You should have heard the smack down President Hayes gave him on the hotline when Anubis was in orbit."

"Oh? I knew Kinsey was out, obviously, but not why; what did he do?"

"Claimed he needed to be put on the list to go to the Alpha Site with America's best and brightest; basically, running away."

"Doesn't surprise me, from what I've heard – the PM's opinion of the man was certainly not repeatable in public. What did the **POTUS** say?"

"He said no, of course. Then when Kinsey threatened him politically he said something along the lines of 'Oh please, I got enough on you to have you shot!', then ordered me to ignore Kinsey and carry on briefing him." Weir chuckled at the memory. "Definitely the highlight of my SGC career, short though it was."

"I'll bet."

They fell silent as the little bronze aircraft floated down from the hangar and boosted through the gate. Harry couldn't shake that ominous feeling. He had pointed out the Sheppard that the mission to the Wraith world was dangerous even with a cloaked jumper – the Darts could just be waiting on the other side of the gate, they could be ambushed on the surface, and so on. But both officers knew a follow-up recon was required – it was the only place they knew the Wraith had a permanent base, and they needed up-to-date intel badly; the usual risk vs. reward dilemma. Sheppard wasn't going to push his luck though; trying to physically infiltrate the Hive just a week after they'd accidentally awoken every Wraith in the place was a sure-fire way to get caught, or 'bumped' in British army slang, so he'd acknowledged the smart thing was to stay outside and observe.

_Well, I can't do anything for them just __standing around._

* * *

A few hours later, Harry was feeling somewhat happier, despite the lingering gut feeling that _something_ was going wrong _somewhere_. He and the MGS had been poking around the Jumper bay for several hours, and had found it to be almost suspiciously well arranged for their purpose.

The room was a large, two story octagon, with two Jumpers stacked vertically on each wall except the one on which the entry door was, where there was only one craft, on the upper level – the 'upstairs' ones were accessible from a balcony that ran around the room, with oblong protrusions that the Jumpers fit onto exactly with no gap or rail around the edge. They had found that at the rear of each Jumper was a small room; more of an oversized broom closet, really, but very convenient for the loading ramp of each vehicle.

Santorini estimated each room would each fit a mortar or other heavy weapon with enough ammunition for a reasonably long firefight, though not an extended battle – which they weren't intending on engaging in anyway. The placement of the rooms would allow rapid loading/unloading of the Jumpers, and the internal benches would easily hold the 60mm rounds or Javelin tubes, with some cargo netting to hold them in place.

His improved mood was dampened by the insistent wailing of the incoming wormhole alarm. He decided to ignore it for the time being; it was Sergeant Cole's watch down in the control room, Weir's office was five metres away from it, and there was no point micromanaging if it was just one of the teams returning early, so he carried on discussing possible tactical options for deploying the mortars with Santorini. The MGS had been a weapons platoon sergeant earlier in his career, and was thus intimately familiar with the capabilities – and limitations – of the weapons systems in his armoury. However, Harry was no longer able to ignore the alarm when he heard Kato Wong, one of the control room techs, contact the infirmary about a medical emergency on the city command net, so they both left it there and went downstairs.

The radio network they'd set up had different frequencies for different divisions of the expedition. The Marines had their usual encrypted squad/platoon/company nets, except the company level was linked to the control room rather than directly to Major Sheppard, since he might be offworld. The scientists had their own general frequency, and one for priority messages between the heads of department and Stargate Operations; the control room could also broadcast on all of them simultaneously for general emergency messages.

Offworld transmissions had to be sent via the much more powerful radio sets in the control room that had been dedicated to the task for two reasons: one, they had better encryption and therefore more secure – theoretically – and two, they could get much better omni-directional transmission strength through the narrow aperture of the Stargate, which had a tendency to 'channel' lower power radio waves in whatever direction the active Gate was pointing. Harry had not heard the initial emergency call because he wasn't linked into the bigger offworld radio sets, something he might have to rectify; or at least get the techs to call him as well as the medics.

He arrived in the control room to find Weir standing by Wong at the communications desk, Sergeant Cole just behind them. "**Sitrep**." It wasn't a question, and Cole snapped a report off immediately.

"Major Sheppard has an unknown alien insect attached to his neck, they can't get it off and need medical assistance."

"ETA?"

"One minute, sir. Doctor Beckett's on his way up."

"Aaand this is why I wanted an offworld medical team." Harry muttered. "We're bringing them back here, ma'am?" Weir nodded, unhappy but with no choice. "Okay. Sergeant, get a fireteam from the duty squad to quarantine the Jumper Bay." Cole nodded and left.

"_Zero, Jumper Alpha One on final approach."_ There was nothing worth replying with, so they waited.

And waited.

"Shouldn't they be through by now?" Weir eventually asked.

The technician shrugged. "Stargate's still active. All indications are that they _should_ have come through."

"Jumper One, this is …" Weir glared at Harry for a moment, "Sunray. What's your status?" Harry smirked at her still-aggrieved expression, and pulled out his notebook. Rule One of being an officer: 'Your job is complicated. Carry a notepad and write things down, or it will remain that way.'

Ford replied, "_Jumper One, good to hear your voice. The four of us are still here, but Walker and Markham are still in the forward section." _

_Well that was clear as mud. _He nearly rolled his eyes at Ford's less than helpful report, but that would have been unprofessional.

Weir clearly thought the same. "Say again?"

"_Ma'am, Jumper One is lodged in the Stargate. Teyla, Dr McKay and myself are in the rear compartment with the Major, he's in bad shape. Walker and Markham are in the forward section." _

"How did that happen?"

"_We think it was one of the engine pods that got caught, but there's no way to be sure."_

"If I understand you correctly, you won't be able to access the flight controls?"

McKay interrupted with a panicked rant, but Weir shut him down sharply, and Ford continued his report.

AR-1 had been unable to identify the Hive from orbit as the rescue party had, so they returned to the same landing coordinates as before and approached on foot to get a closer look. When they reached the sizeable mountainside overgrown with trees that _had_ been the Wraith Hive, it was to find it … gone. As in replaced by a massive, hundred-metre wide crater. Before they could do much more than wonder _what the hell_, a small party of Wraith had opened fire on them. Rodney again interrupted though, pointing out they only had thirty eight minutes remaining.

"Wait, why thirty-eight minutes?"

"_Because that's the maximum amount of time a Stargate can remain active in non-relativistic conditions."_ McKay was ranting, but somewhat more under control. _"It's one of the more immutable laws of wormhole physics, and OH MY, look at the time, now it's more like thirty-five minutes, are we all caught up?"_

"All right, I get it. What do you need?"

McKay's reply was simple, and from a man as egotistical as the Canadian scientist could be, incredibly revealing.

"_Help." _

"All right, let me put Kavanagh, Grodin and Simpson in a room, see what they can come up with."

"_That's good, and the Czech, the Czech whose name I can never remember."_

"Dr Zelenka?"

"_Yeah, that's him. We're working it at our end."_

"Anything else?"

"_That's it, we'll call you. Thank you." _Harry didn't bother to suppress the eye-rolling urge this time. _Being rude really doesn't help._

Carson arrived out of breath and confused. "Where's my patient?"

"There's been a problem," Weir grabbed him and dragged him out of the room, giving orders over her shoulder as she went. "Keep a channel open with them at all times, and someone turn that damn alarm off!"

_Only one channel? There's a reason we have modern radios. _Harry leaned over Wong's comms desk, and jacked his headset into one of the spare larger sets. "McKay, stay on channel one and keep working on the Jumper; Lieutenant, switch to channel two and continue your sitrep."

"_Yes sir." _Harry fiddled with the keypad for a moment. "Carry on, Ford."

"_Wait one, sir, the Major's awake."_

There was a minute's silence. _I hate this. I hate not being the one at risk. I hate not being able to save someone who's all of fifteen metres away ... subjectively, anyway. I can only hope she – they, make it through this, because there's nothing I can do to help with this one. _

"_Back on, sir."_

"How is he?"

"_Conscious and talking, sir, I'll take that as a good sign."_

"Roger that. Carry on with the sitrep, Lieutenant."

"_Yes sir. After the ambush, the Major was covering the rear as we returned to the Jumper. We got split up, and he ran into a kind of massive spider-web thing which the bug was attached to. We went back, killed the Wraith pursuers and tried various things to get it off, but nothing worked, so we came back to the Jumper, but we took some fire on take-off, at least three solid hits, which is probably what damaged the pods." _

_A massive web? Please let there not be fucking Acromantulas in the Pegasus Galaxy; that might be too much weirdness to deal with._

"Anything else intel-wise?"

"_No sir, that's about it."_

"You got a camera?"

"_Yes sir, standard kit."_

"Good. Get it out and get some quick images before starting treatment. I know that's rather cold, but everything is intel."

"_Yes sir, I copy. Wait one." _

Again, a short silence. _"All done sir."_

"Okay. Beckett just got here, describe the Major's condition to him and work on a treatment."

Harry handed off to Beckett, and listened for a few minutes as the **CMO** and Ford went through everything available on the Jumper and started going through possible treatment options before giving up and heading out to find Weir to see how her scientists were getting on. The director was just coming back from the conference room, clearly stressed.

"Anything?"

"Kavanagh!" The always-polite diplomat hissed the name with such vitriol Harry was momentarily taken aback. "The idiot's more concerned with his _own_ survival than the team's."

"Wait, why? In what way could he possibly be in danger?"

"Apparently there's a one-in-a-million chance of some kind of blowback through the gate connection if Rodney accidentally blows the engines up; I was so enraged by that point I wasn't really listening."

"If I shot him, would that help?"

Weir blinked, then chuckled tiredly. "Thanks. I needed that." She eyed him, cautiously. "You were joking, right?"

"Maybe." Harry deadpanned. There was a tiny little part of him – okay, so quite a large part of him – that _did _want to shoot Kavanagh. Repeatedly. At least with McKay, the arrogance was tolerable because he really was as smart as he said he was. Kavanagh wasn't even close to McKay's level of smarts, but had an even bigger ego.

"Oh-kay." Weir still wasn't sure, but Halling distracted both of them as she turned to leave.

"Dr Weir?" The tall Athosian was carrying a tray with what looked like incense burners, and was followed by at least half-a-dozen other members of the tribe.

"I'm sorry, I don't have time right now."

"Neither do those people trapped on the ship of the Ancestors." Weir sighed, and turned back to Halling, but Harry waved his hand.

"I do. Go on, boss."

"You sure?"

"Yeah, I'm not a physicist or a medic last I checked, and there's nothing to shoot, so yeah, I have time. We're down to less than twenty-five minutes, get going." Harry gave her a little push, to which she nodded and left.

"Sorry, Halling, you're going to have to settle for me. What can I do for you?"

"Amongst our people, there is a ritual prayer which is said when it is known Death is upon them."

"I wouldn't call it a certainty just yet."

"I'm told it is all but inevitable."

"Good news travels fast, I see. Halling, if I had accepted any sort of 'fate' as inevitable, I should have died years ago." _If Dumbledore's plan had gone through like he originally expected, I _would _have died years ago._ _Bloody prophecies._

"Perhaps. But it is important that Teyla be allowed to prepare for death. Knowing the time and place of one's end is a … a very rare thing amongst our people, because of the Wraith. It is a simple rite; it will not take more than a few moments."

"Does it require Teyla's involvement directly?" Harry gestured at the Gate. "Because..."

"Not necessarily, but it is preferred."

"So ... radio contact is okay?" Halling nodded.

Harry mulled it over for a few seconds. "Okay. I'm going to ask Teyla if she wants to – it could be she's occupied on the other side, they're still trying to save Major Sheppard from the thing on his neck. If not right now, we can try again later. Besides, they might pull through. That okay?"

"Yes, Captain. Thank you for listening. Dr Weir did not seem so amenable."

"She's just rather busy. Certain arrogant bastards aren't helping." Harry added under his breath, just loud enough for the Athosian to hear, assuming a deceptively bland look as an unsuspecting Kavanagh as the tall, rail-thin, bespectacled American scientist in question strode across the stairs landing into the control room. "Come on."

Halling handed the tray off to one of the others, and followed Harry up. The techs were all distracted by the brewing confrontation between Kavanagh and Dr Weir on the far side, but Harry ignored it; Kavanagh was a lightweight, and Weir was more than capable of ripping him to shreds without his help. Harry waited a few seconds for a lull in the chatter between Lieutenant Ford and Doctor Beckett, now patched in from the Infirmary – the LT was trying various substances from the Jumper's onboard supplies to try and get the leech to drop off.

"Teyla this is Storm. Switch to channel three, Halling's got a personal message."

"_Understood, Captain." _A few seconds silence. _"What is it, fratrem meum_?_"_

"Transiens Vitae, Teyla." Halling answered. There was a several long seconds of silence.

"_I see. Captain, has Halling explained the ceremony to you?"_

"Other than it was short and rather important, not in any specific detail."

"_Understood. Halling, frater, I appreciate your concern for my spirit, and should we still be trapped in here a few minutes before the wormhole's time limit is up, then we will do the ritual. I am not quite ready to give up just yet, not on my own life or the others'. Besides," _Teyla was clearly smiling now, despite the situation, _"I have yet to beat the Captain senseless." _

Halling and Harry glanced at each other, both smiling slightly as the tension was broken. "_Al'zeyma_," Harry told her, "you know that isn't going to happen anytime soon."

"_So you say, Harry. I need to get back to the Major."_

"Understood. Storm out." Harry flicked the spare radio back to standby, just in time to hear the tail end of Weir's verbal smack-down – and boy, was it worth it.

"If you waste _one_ more minute that could be used to help the people trapped on that ship because of your _ego_, I promise you I will dial the coordinates of a _very_ lonely planet where you can be as self-important as you wanna be." _Oh wow, incorrect grammar from Dr Weir? She IS pissed, isn't she? Wasn't sure she had it in her, to be honest._

Kavanagh blustered. "You wouldn't do that."

Harry called out across the room, drawing all eyes away from the scientist who was just digging a bigger hole for himself. "Yes she will, Kavanagh. And if you're _very_ lucky, I won't kneecap you before kicking your worthless arse through the event horizon."

"You wouldn't _do_ that!" Now the man just sounded desperate.

"Yeah?" Harry smiled – it was a distinctly predatory one, as he put a hand on his sidearm and flicked off the retaining strap. "Do I look like a diplomat, Doctor? Make my fucking day."

Weir followed that up with a curt, "Get back to work," directed at Kavanagh, before retreating to her office, presumably to let her frustrations out somewhere privately rather than scream in fury at the scientist in front of her subordinates. Which would be unprofessional, if probably rather satisfying.

Kavanagh left in a hurry, avoiding Harry's glare like it would set him on fire. _Actually, a lightning bolt would do that, amongst other things … tempting, but no. We might need him … if only to trade him to the Wraith._

"Sorry you had to see that," he said to Halling. "But Kavanagh needed it."

"Teyla was right. You are dangerous."

"What?"

Halling pointed at his sidearm, riding in the thigh holster. "She told me what Sergeant Stackhouse said about your shooting skills. 'Dangerous' was the word she used."

"Hmm." Harry didn't know quite what to say to that. He was dangerous, no doubt … and for some reason, he wasn't happy Teyla might be scared of him. _Analyse it later._

"I will wait until five minutes before the time limit, Captain. Then I will need your help to set the link to Teyla up."

"I'll be here," Harry sent him a reassuring smile, "although I fully intend to rescue them before that point."

"Harry!" Weir called out from her office doorway, marching quickly back across the bridge.

"Director?"

"It just occurred to me, your affinity for interfacing with Ancient technology goes deeper than everyone else's – could you head up to the Jumper Bay and help Zelenka, he's working on one of them."

"On it, ma'am."

* * *

Harry found Zelenka standing on a box in the rear compartment of one of the Jumpers, poking at a opened access panel and cursing creatively in Czech, which made him slightly regret not having learned the language at some point – the diatribe probably would have been highly informative.

"Doctor Zelenka?"

The engineer jumped, banging his head on the ceiling. "_Do prdele!_"

"Do I want to know what that means?"

Radek rubbed the back of his head. "No. What do you want, Captain? I'm short on time as you know."

"I know; Doctor Weir asked me to come and use my super-duper ATA gene in helping you figure out how to retract the engine pods."

"_Ty vole_. I should have thought of that." Zelenka waved at the flight controls. "I've got the tablet jacked into the ships computer systems, which has helped me narrow down the control run for the engine hydraulics gear to this panel. If you could try to access the right subroutine in the programming, I might be able to get a little closer."

"Sure."

Harry moved round the precariously balanced scientist and settled into the left-hand seat in the front, placing his hands on the twin joysticks. The Ancients apparently believed in redundancy, or maybe preferred the old fashioned way sometimes, because although Harry could actually control the ship with his mind (and he assumed the designers could to) it was easier to use the manual flight controls while using his mental connection to interface with the sensors – concentrating on both flying and scanning at the same time was rather tiring, he'd found on the rescue mission.

_Navigation – engines – environmental – hull integrity – Dial-Home-Connection – weapons systems– stealth systems_

"Is that you, Captain?" Zelenka tapped furiously at his tablet

"Possibly … what's happening?"

"The ship's computer started running system checks."

"Then yes, that was me."

"Oh, okay. That's fine. Just keep doing what you're doing, look for the retraction sequence controls and I'll trace your interaction with the system from here."

"Got it."

_Engines – start/stop – y/n?_

_N! N! Goddammit, don't start the engines in here!_

There was a pause; to Harry, jacked directly into the system, it felt brief but was apparent. To Zelenka, it was only microseconds, so he didn't notice.

_Pilot query – y/n? _

_Does it __actually _know _I want to ask it a question? Odd. _

Zelenka made a surprised sounding noise.

"What?"

"Nothing, that last bit was just … curiously intuitive. Unexpected. Carry on ... in fact, try explaining precisely what we want and asking for help. Maybe it'll understand."

Harry concentrated on the ship again. _Hardware fault on Gateship One – Engine retraction failed – cause: battle damage – flight compartment inaccessible – request information for manual retraction._

Another momentary pause. _Query understood – Engine hydraulics control run can be located in the cargo compartment – left side – upper panel three – crystal board five-alpha – circuit two – connect and apply low voltage charge to trigger retraction._

"Got all that, Doctor?"

"Yes, yes."

Zelenka sent the data on to the stranded crew, and Harry pulled back from the ship, still a little weirded out at the sensation of linking directly into the machine.

"Radek?"

"Yes?"

"How … intuitive would you say this thing's computer is?"

"Well … by Earth standards, it might be AI level or close to it, probably."

"What's the definition of artificial intelligence?"

"Officially? Uh, a computer capable of performing tasks that normally require sentient, human intelligence, like true visual perception, flawless voice recognition, decision-making based on changing data, that kind of thing."

"So it doesn't require personality? Voice, individuality, that kind of thing?"

"No, not officially. Of course, most science fiction AI's are like that, because it's hard to sell computer code on screen when you could have Lexa Doig." Zelenka grinned, while still typing. "But look, here we are in an alien city in a different galaxy." He looked up suddenly. "Why, you think this thing is actually an AI?"

"No, but the speed of it's response to the rather odd question we just put to it got me thinking, that's all." Harry stretched. "You think we'll find AI's here? Like, perhaps they need ZPM's to be active?"

"Well, we've found no references to AIs in the Ancient Database, but even the Asgard admit they've only scratched the surface of the Ancient's knowledge – and they've had access to it for thousands of years." Zelenka tapped his chin thoughtfully. "It would be hard to run such a technology-based city like Atlantis without massive computer support. It's capable of spaceflight, and has weapons systems, environmental systems, hydroponics, probably industrial capacity too even if we haven't found it yet. So no, it wouldn't surprise me to find an AI somewhere. Probably not in the puddle jumpers though."

"True. Anyway, call me back if there's another problem I can help with."

* * *

Predictably, there was, but not something he could help Zelenka with. With fifteen minutes remaining, the Jumper's engines were now retracted but the ship was stuck in the gate due to Newton's First Law; inertia. The Jumper was stationary – ergo, without an outside force or source of thrust acting on it, it still couldn't complete the transition.

Ten minutes.

Nine. Sheppard's insane idea to deal with the creature attached to his own neck went ahead; using a portable defibrillator to stop his heart, fooling the leech-thing – which apparently bore some similarity to the Wraith, although Harry hadn't been listening to that part – into thinking it's 'prey' was dead, at which point it dropped off, and Ford attempted to restart the Major's heart.

Eight. No joy. Teyla dragged the Major through the event horizon to keep him in suspended animation, leaving Ford and McKay.

Seven. Harry joined Halling where the Athosians were sitting on the steps in front of the Gate.

"You heard?"

"I did." Halling confirmed. "Teyla is no longer available."

"Yeah." Harry sat in silence for a few seconds. "Tell me about _Transiens Vitae?_ The Passing of Life, if I translated it right."

"Why now? You seemed rather against the idea before."

"Before, I had something I could do to bring them home. Now I have time. I'm interested." Harry shrugged.

"As I said, it is a simple rite, to be done with little warning. There is a short prayer, and the incense burner is a kind of moveable shrine as you would think of it. When we settle down for longer periods we build small stone altars, _fanum_, but these suffice for when we are moving around, or for more private prayers. There is a longer version called a Ring Ceremony, for those who are lucky enough to live to die of old age. The whole tribe is usually involved in those." Halling smiled, despite the situation. "It is my hope many more of our people will reach that ceremony under your protection, Captain."

"Not just mine, Halling."

"True. But you are the one the Athosians will probably look to amongst your people for reassurance, rather than Doctor Weir. Teyla said she explained why."

"Because of the rescue?"

Halling nodded. "That, and other reasons." But they were interrupted before Harry could ask him what he meant.

Kavanagh redeemed himself – somewhat – by figuring out how to push the Jumper through the wormhole; opening the rear hatch. The momentary exposure to vacuum wouldn't kill the crew provided they were pushed through the wormhole quickly enough, and the air rushing out would generate enough thrust to do that.

Benevolently, Harry decided he wouldn't kneecap Kavanagh after all – but he'd still like to kick him offworld.

* * *

Since the bug had been blown out the hatch into vacuum, quarantine was lifted. Ford was first out of the Jumper, suffering the aftereffects of the momentary vacuum exposure but clearly happy to be alive, giving them a 'thumbs up' and a shaky grin from behind the oxygen mask as he was wheeled out. Harry followed Weir in after the Lieutenant was out of the way.

It took Beckett several more harrowing tries with the defibrillator to revive Sheppard, but the insane plan worked – in the end. Weir sat on one of the bench seats, although it was more of a controlled collapse in relief. Teyla stood from where she had been cross-legged at the Major's side, and stepped over him towards Harry, putting her hands on his shoulders inviting an Athosian greeting. Harry reciprocated, putting his hands on her waist and touching their foreheads together. Then he realised she was shaking; either from the effects of adrenaline or shock, he wasn't sure. For her, it had been only thirty seconds or so since they 'killed' Sheppard, rather than the five or six minutes it had been for him.

"Hey." He spoke softly, and pulled back to look at her. "You're safe, Teyla, you finished the mission and you made it back. Live to fight another day."

Her hands tightened on his shoulders, but she looked up and smiled. "I suppose. Is that how you manage this ... this ..." Words failed her.

"Shaking? Just adrenaline. It'll pass."

Her eyes searched his for reassurance, and apparently found some measure of what she was looking for, since she relaxed and moved aside to let the medical team out.

* * *

_Jungle. _

_Thick, stifling, and utterly black, so dark under the canopy it almost had texture. _

_Water. _

_The infiltration, wading through waist deep swamp, their advance reduced to a crawl to avoid tripping on the roots of the gnarled mangroves that surrounded them. _

_Waiting. _

_The tedium of surveillance, watching for days, then weeks as negotiations went back and forth, back and forth, with the lives of a dozen captured British and local soldiers in the hands of a band of psychopathic drug dealers claiming to be 'rebels'. _

_Sound. _

_The crackle of gunfire. Heavier, slower thumping of stolen heavy machine guns and mortars opening up on the __**Paras**__ diversionary assault from the south. The screaming of the wounded. The shouts of the hostages, leading us to their building._

_Wind. _

_The downdraft of helicopters overhead, blowing the shanty town's corrugated iron shacks apart as D Squadron fast-ropes in. A small, intense storm is on the western horizon. It is not of natural origin, but no-one will be able to tell._

_Fear. _

_Wild-eyed men charge our squad's line, wielding machetes and high on their own products, believing themselves protected by superstitions and 'amulets'. Some have guns, but most of them were drawn off by the Paras a few minutes ago. Now it's just the dregs between us and the objective, but even human wave attacks work if there's enough of them, and only a few of us. _

_Pain. _

_A deep cut to my cheek, as I just avoid being decapitated. A few minutes later, a zipping noise like an angry hornet and a sharp pain in my arm announces the slightly-too-close passage of a bullet. It is not incapacitating – I drop the shooter with my return shots, and carry on for a few minutes before the medic binds it up._

_Heat._

_ The tropical late summer is already scorching; near the fires, it is unbearable. Burning houses, thatched roofs set ablaze by grenades or fire from the gunships. The Lynxes are circling like buzzards, hammering away at some target on the other side of the village. The tracers of their machine guns lance out like lasers, heavy calibre bullets chewing up the ground, houses and enemies alike. _

_Adrenaline._

_ We jump as wreckage shifts; a civilian, wide-eyed with terror, pokes his head out. Relax. Pull him, then his family out. The linguist tells them where to go, two men to escort. _

_Scent._

_ Phosphorous and cordite on the air. The metallic bite of blood. The horrific stench of burning human flesh._

_Light._

_ Bright West African sunshine, a pure blue sky mocking the horrors below. The reflection from the blade of a knife. Laser sights dancing across the wreckage as we sweep the remains of the village, responding to resistance with overwhelming force. _

_Blood. _

_The floor of the Chinook is awash with it, from extracting casualties and enemy corpses. The river, brown with silt, now has a maroon tint at the banks. _

_Thunder._

_ The 'storm' is sweeping in, buffeting the helo as we finally pull out. I have to stay awake, control the maelstrom for maximum impact._

_By morning, the whole site will be sufficiently mangled no-one should ever determine what really happened._

_What we did. What we can never tell the world. The hostages were rescued. That's all they will care about. No one wants to know what we have to do to keep them safe. If the truth came out ..._

_So much blood. _

_Did we do the right thing?_

_I don't know. _

_Maybe …_

_Maybe I never will._

Harry's eyes snapped open to the darkness of his room in Atlantis. The balcony was open, a slight warm breeze stirring the curtains. He liked feeling open air when he slept.

He knew from experience he wouldn't get back to sleep.

_Oh-three-thirty. Going to be a long day. _

Feeling restless, he made his way through the dark corridors – the lighting was set not to activate at this time of night unless switched on manually.

He was more comfortable in the dark anyway. The sources of his demons were the things that walked or happened brazenly under the sun – 'Uncle' Vernon, Voldemort, his missions – not imaginary 'things in the night'; in fact to many people, he would be one of those 'things' himself.

On bare feet, he padded down to the mess, moving soundlessly by instinct and training. When he reached the open door, he noticed a figure sitting on one of the couches over by the big picture windows, the bright moonlight haloing clearly feminine brown hair. Although he'd rather have been alone, he took a longer look and realised it was probably Teyla. Filling two plastic glasses with orange juice, he approached the couches from behind.

* * *

Teyla had just been sitting. No purpose, no thoughts running through her head, just sitting there staring out across the incredible, mythical City that had suddenly become her home.

Then a hand intruded into her field of vision, holding a glass of some colourful fruit juice. She jumped, but took it and looked over her shoulder. For some reason, the fact it was Harry didn't surprise her. She was mildly annoyed at herself for letting him sneak up on her like that. _The man moves like a damn cat. _

"Thank you, Captain."

"Deep thoughts?" He moved to sit on one of the other couches.

"None at all, actually. Or too many."

"Ah. So, trouble sleeping then?"

"Well … yes." Teyla tucked her legs underneath herself, unconsciously more relaxed and comfortable in his presence. "You as well." It wasn't a question.

"Yep." They were silent for a few seconds.

"Want to talk about it?"

Teyla raised an eyebrow at him. "Do you?"

He smiled crookedly. "Fair point."

The silence was longer this time, but was not an awkward one. Teyla took the opportunity to watch the Warrior, as his attention was on the City. The bright light of a nearly full moon threw the scar over his right eye into sharp relief, the dark line striking on his skin. While in daylight he always seemed somewhat weathered and older than he appeared, the pure, pearlescent moonlight hid all that.

Eventually Teyla broke the quiet. A question had been burning at her since she had calmed down from the adrenaline of the earlier crisis.

"Is this what being a soldier is like?" Harry looked at her, raised a questioning eyebrow. "The … terror, when the Wraith ambushed us. The helplessness, when the Major dying slowly right in front of me, with everything we tried just hurting him more until we had to _kill_ him to save him. Rodney was breaking down, giving up, until Ford got him moving again. You all seem so …"

"Fearless? Brave? Steadfast?" His mouth twisted in a sardonic smile. "It's an act. Everyone is terrified when the bullets start flying, or people start getting hurt; anyone who tells you otherwise, that says they weren't ever scared in combat is lying. Or perhaps, too arrogant or stupid to understand the danger they were in."

"So … if you are all faking it …" Harry chuckled, but she went on, "then why do it? Why do you fight?"

"Courage is not the absence of fear, but deciding that something else is more important than fear."

"Wise words once again, Captain."

He smirked. "Not mine, just borrowed."

"So … does it get easier? I … I am not sure if …"

"If you can keep this up?"

She nodded, eyes down.

"Everyone is different. Some deal with it well, others completely fall apart. Most fall between the two, of course. Are you having second thoughts?"

Harry looked at her, and she felt almost pinned under his gaze. "There's a reason our militaries are volunteer only except in times of crisis, Teyla. Not everyone _can_ handle the strain. There's no shame in that."

"Do you think I am one of them?"

He shrugged. "No, I think you can hack it. But it isn't what I believe that matters. If you don't believe in yourself or what you fight for, then you won't be able to. Does that help?"

"… Yes. Although the nightmares were … unsettling. I hope they don't come back."

"Don't we all."

"Do you have them?" _Obviously he does, great question Teyla. Fantastic sensitivity. _

"Yes."

"May I ask what of?" _Stop pushing! It's none of your concern! _Teyla backpedalled, cursing her overabundant curiosity. "Actually, I'm sorry; I have no right to ask."

The Warrior – no longer Harry – looked at her measuringly. She'd noticed this before, noticed an imperceptible shift in his mood like this, when he stopped being 'Harry', the charming, usually rather amusing and considerate peacemaker and _switched_, locking down his shields and shuttering his emotions, becoming completely unreadable; now she realised it usually happened whenever she asked something too personal. _That's going to make this hard. _

To her surprise however, he did answer.

"My first official mission in the Special Forces. Slightly under four years ago, now. It was called **Operation** **Barras**, a prisoner-extraction mission in Sierra Leone. The plan seemed utterly insane; we called it 'Operation Certain Death.'" He grimaced. "It turned out well, officially anyway. All the hostages rescued, with minimal casualties compared to the projected ones." He stared off out the window again for several seconds before turning back.

"It's where I got this." He pointed at the scar under his left eye. "And this." He pulled up the sleeve of his t-shirt to show the thick scar on his upper right arm.

"What were they from?"

"The second was a bullet graze, towards the end of the fight. Just unlucky, a wild shot. The first was ... a very lucky escape. Bastard nearly cut my head off with a machete."

"Why was the mission so dangerous?"

"It was hostage rescue – those are always dicey at the best of times. The hostage-takers were a bunch of rebels-slash-drug dealers who called themselves the 'West Side Boys'. They were insane; frequently drunk on palm wine, high on narcotics or both at the same time, and they believed in all kinds of occult crap, that if they wore magical amulets our bullets would bounce off them." He shook his head. "They – they were fearless. Remember what I said, that people can be too stupid or gung-ho to understand the danger?"

"Yes."

"Well, the West Side Boys simply didn't comprehend the danger at all; because they were too drunk or stoned on drugs to realise they'd been hit by our fire, sometimes multiple times. I was inexperienced, back then; oh, I was a physically tough, well trained, and well equipped soldier, and had some combat experience, but the sight of wild-eyed, screaming, machete-wielding thugs charging us, some missing an arm or with holes blown clear through their abdomen without having noticed was nearly too much for me. I was still fighting, still firing, but … lost my situational awareness. I had tunnel vision – it's not uncommon in situations like that. All I saw was what was down the sights of my rifle, gunning down one incoherently screaming berserker after another. One guy came at us from the side, through a hut right next to me. He took a wild slash at my neck; I just managed to jerk my head out of the way, and the tip of the blade caught my cheek."

He gestured to the scar. "It was pretty bad. The blow had enough force to throw me on the ground, and I dropped my rifle in the mud. The guy next to me got a shot off, straight into the tango at point blank range, but he just staggered back a bit, too juiced to even notice. Then my partner's gun jammed, and the bad guy was still alive and armed, and we weren't issued sidearms for that battle – too much weight. I had to go hand-to-hand with a knife, against a guy with a foot-and-a-half long machete that could split my skull in two in one blow. It was … messy, though he didn't manage to cut me. That's partly why I carry those swords, so that if I run out of ammo, I _always_ have the bigger knife."

"And the rest of the mission?"

"Was also messy." He sighed, closed his eyes briefly, and slumped back into the sofa. _I don't think I've ever seen him so vulnerable – even unconscious in the infirmary._

"Officially, twenty five West Side Boys were killed and their leader captured. Unofficially, we had orders to break them as a fighting force, to make sure they never recovered, and never troubled their nation ever again. I'm not sure how many we killed, but it was more than two hundred."

Teyla wasn't sure what to make of that. "Why the lie?"

"Politics. Those kinds of massive enemy casualties didn't 'look good' for the Prime Minister; he ordered the mission as part of a 'peacekeeping' operation. Publically, it was a rescue mission, and we'd already extracted the hostages, so sticking around after that to slaughter hundreds of people supposedly 'wasn't fair,' even if they were the enemy. The British Armed Forces are, in my humble opinion," he winked, humour showing through again momentarily, "the finest military in the world; apparently, to some people, that means we have to lower ourselves to the enemy's capabilities – if we don't, we are decried as murderers by certain parts of the media, eager for sensational stories and to portray us in a bad light, even if what they spout are basically lies. It's not an attitude I've ever put up with, but ..." Harry shrugged. "People are stupid that way sometimes. Too often, they never question what they're told. Especially if they've never been in combat, felt what you felt today. I still haven't decided if we did the right thing that day in Sierra Leone four years ago, but I have to live with it either way. That doesn't mean I want anyone second guessing my decisions."

He fell silent, a brooding quiet rather different to the ones before.

"Yours is not to reason why?" Teyla asked with a slight smile.

He looked at her. "Sometimes. Where did you hear that phrase?"

"One of the marines, grumbling about something a few days ago."

"Heh. Probably my fault then. The XO always gets blamed for everything." With that, 'Harry' was returned to the forefront.

Problem was … now she wasn't sure which one was the 'real' man. _Oh well. Either way, he's still my friend. If I offend him, I'm sure it won't be a permanent thing. Well, I'm relatively sure …_ _better to make this a little more light-hearted._

"You do realise I did not understand quite a bit of that story."

His lips quirked slightly. "It was a bit of a rant at the end. Anything in particular?"

"Media?"

"Organisations that spread news. The better ones try to be impartial, but everyone has their opinion. News organisations frequently reflect the opinions of those who own them."

"The British? Clearly something to do with your humble opinions …"

He gave a short laugh. "Oh yes. Didn't I mention that before? When I said there were many nations on the face of Earth?"

"Not which one you came from. I gathered the coloured patches your people wear have something to do with them, and that all the Marines – John as well – come from America, so I suppose Peter Grodin is also from Britain?"

"Yes he is. It's an island nation off the coast of the European continent, population about sixty million or so."

Teyla was not surprised at the number, given what she knew about Earth, but it still awed her that so many could live on one world. The largest group of humans she knew of in Pegasus couldn't have numbered more than thirty thousand or so, which previously had seemed like a massive number. Her own clan was about a hundred and fifty, still recovering from the last culling. The Athosians as a people were about seventeen hundred.

_Unless the Wraith have already found them. _Teyla knew the three other 'outreach' missions had been successful, and the other tribes would be contacted in the next few days, but she feared that some would have been culled already.

_Don't think about that. Ask him something else._

"So how did you end up in the military?" _There. Was that subtle enough?_

* * *

_I hate having to lie to her._

_Wait. I said I wouldn't, during that conversation when we postponed sparring. Well, it could be interpreted differently, but that's what I_ meant._ I keep my word, even if it's harder. _

_Just play it vague._

"I went to military-run school when I was fifteen," Harry said carefully. "That didn't require me to join the armed forces, but I chose to do so. I love flying, so I opted to join the Royal Air Force, which operates Britain's military aircraft. I was trained as a pilot originally, and I'm a damn good one, but I'm even better on the ground. I went through Special Forces selection and training immediately after flying training, and have spent the four years since then working with the British Army."

"Do you miss flying?" That was not a question Harry had expected.

"I did a bit, up until coming to Atlantis. Obviously the Jumpers are fantastic from my point of view, although they're not as much fun as our aircraft. Almost too steady, too safe to fly."

"Can something be 'too safe'?" Teyla demanded incredulously.

"Well … jets are rather fragile, but much more exhilarating to fly … if you're a good pilot. If you're not, well, it'd be pretty terrifying."

"And what makes you a good pilot, hmm? Do I detect a slight hint of arrogance there?"

Harry grinned. "Highest marks ever in training and on my requalification exams, thank you Teyla, so I have a right to be arrogant."

"Hmm. So, you're a better fighter on the ground than you are a pilot?" Teyla raised an eyebrow, but Harry could tell she was teasing, taking a mock-haughty tone. "And if you had the highest marks as a pilot … well, that's quite a claim, Captain. I will require some convincing."

"Teyla, I already beat you, remember?"

"Hmm. Someday soon though, you will not. And then …"

"And then I will tell you what the tattoo says." Harry sighed. "Your apparently insatiable curiosity aside, why exactly does that interest you?"

She blinked, surprised at the sudden swerve of the conversation_._

* * *

_Caught. _

"I find … it … interesting, Harry." _That isn't true. Dodging around the truth will only annoy him. _

Teyla took a breath, then amended her statement.

"I find _you_ interesting."

"I'm ... flattered?"

Teyla could feel herself blushing furiously, and hoped her darker skin concealed it in the moonlight.

"You are a man of contradictions, Harry. You wield blades, when you have guns. You lead a life centred around violence, but would probably prefer to use words to resolve conflict. Sometimes you hide your emotions, lock down your walls, but other times I see you laugh and play with children." Teyla shrugged, keenly aware of his steady, unreadable gaze, knowing she was committed now.

"I want to understand you, to truly get to know you; the real you, not the cold emotionless mask you project when something gets too personal, but the man who loves speaking Arabic, the man who revels in a challenge. The man who treated my friendship as a valued gift. My … _sahiibi._" She stumbled over the word slightly, eliciting a slight smile from him, which she hoped was a good sign.

"Are you so sure which one's the mask, Teyla?"

"Yes. I'm sure."

"I'm not." He stared into the glass. "I'm not the same person I was a few years ago. I've run myself into a brick wall, attempting an impossible task. I thought that by joining the military I could save people ... continue to save people, really. But no matter how hard I try, I could never, will never be able to save everyone. Colonel Sumner, for example. A few minutes earlier, and he'd still be alive."

Teyla opened her mouth to say it wasn't his fault, but he interrupted her. "I know that I _couldn't_ save him, that there was no way to know I needed to be faster, to get to him quicker ... but it feels like a failure nonetheless. That's why I push myself so hard, and that's how I've always seen my job; not as a life-taker, but a life-saver, and every single person I lose when I come so close to saving them feels like a personal defeat, regardless of the circumstances."

"Do you want me to stop?"

"Stop what?"

"Asking questions." Teyla hoped she had not pushed too hard, but she had laid it all out now. If he asked, she would stop.

He was silent for a long time. The seconds slipped by, and her anxiety built. Then he abruptly drained the glass and spoke.

"No." He shrugged again. "I've barely known you a week yet here I am, spilling my secrets to you."

Teyla blinked. "I'm ... surprised you find that a good thing."

He gave her a slight smile. "I've never met anyone _less_ judgemental than you, Teyla. There's just something about you, you're ... easy to trust. If you want to get to know me, maybe it's time I let some of my demons out, if you really want to know them. That said," He stood up to leave, "I won't always answer your questions. Some stuff is secret, some stuff is personal."

Teyla caught his arm as he moved past her seat. "Sharing might lessen the burden."

He stopped, looked down at her for a long moment before placing his hand over hers. "Perhaps. Regardless, they're mine to bear. People lost, mistakes made, lessons learned. I move on, push myself further, harder and faster, so that next time, I won't lose someone. I won't hide who I am from you. Don't be surprised if it shocks you. Or ... or disgusts you."

Then he was gone into the shadows, leaving Teyla alone with her thoughts once more, although now they dwelled not on the day's events, but on her Warrior.

* * *

As usual, any mistakes are mine. If anyone spots any inconsistencies, plot holes, typos, factual mistakes, etc., PLEASE do tell me; I will listen, check or research the right answer and correct the text. Also **_REVIEW_** – they rock my world, they really do, honest. **PLEASE REVIEW!**

* * *

Notes

As requested by one reviewer, there will be more Hermione scenes at various points from now on, charting her own course in getting to Atlantis. They won't be every chapter, but they'll crop up fairly regularly as she spends the next year or so at the SGC getting up to speed on alien languages with Dr Jackson.

I've taken liberties with names. Athosian surnames – since Teyla has one, I assume they all do – from now will unless otherwise named be mostly Latin words relating to them somehow. For example, Halling is now 'Halling Celsus,' which means 'Tall.' Not especially imaginative, but it works.

* * *

**Military Terms**

**ORBAT**: **OR**der of **BAT**tle, the structure/organisation/chain of command of a military unit of any size.  
**SUNRAY – **This actually is the old-style (WWII and Cold War period) British term for the Commanding Officer on the radio net, allegedly because someone thought the message 'SUNRAY is on his way to your location' would 'brighten up' the recipient's day (typical Whitehall sense of humour – for those that don't know, Whitehall is the British version of the Pentagon, the offices of the Ministry of Defence). SUNRAY isn't used any more, because it's too well known to other militaries now and is therefore unsecure because of modern interception technology – telling the enemy where your commander is would be like sending out a written, engraved invitation to get him blown to shit with artillery.  
**NCOIC** – **N**on-**C**ommissioned **O**fficer **I**n **C**harge.  
**SNCO** – **S**enior **N**on **C**ommissioned **O**fficer  
**OPSEC** – **Op**erational **Sec**urity  
**CWS** – **C**rew **S**erved **W**eapons  
**TRFs** – **T**actical **R**ecognition **F**lashes, small but distinctively coloured patches used to determine corps/unit membership in the field when the person needing to be ID'd obviously isn't wearing their beret (with service/regimental/corps cap badge) or stable belt, which is a traditional British Army clothing item in the regimental/corps colours intended to brighten up otherwise boringly drab camo/barrack dress uniforms when not in the field (the SAS one is Royal Blue, as are most other UK Special Forces units.)  
**POTUS – P**resident **o**f **t**he **U**nited **S**tates  
**SITREP – SIT**uation **REP**ort  
**CMO – C**hief **M**edical **O**fficer  
**Paras – **short-hand for the Parachute Regiment, the British Army's elite maroon-beret air-assault infantry.  
**OP BARRAS** – did indeed happen, September 2000. Look it up on Google. And yes, the troops involved called it 'Certain Death.' It's one of the SAS's more well-known operations, if only for the sheer ballsiness of the raid.

* * *

_**Transliterated Arabic dictionary**_

_Pronunciation varies between national/regional dialects; capital letters for pronunciation stress/emphasis as I think it is; advice welcome._

_shokran __– Thank you (SHO-kran)  
__afwan __– You're welcome (AF-wan)  
__ma'salaama __– goodbye (mah-sal-AA-ma)  
__ela al'lekaa __– I'll see you soon (eh-la al-LEH-ka)  
__maasa el'khair __– good morning (mAA-sa el-Kair)  
__al'zeyma __– leader, (feminine) (al-ZEY-ma)  
__aasifa – __apology, (feminine) (ah-HASi-fa)  
__sadiiqi __– friend, (feminine) (sa-DEE-kee)  
__sahiibi __– friend, (masculine) (sah-HEE-bee)  
__muharib __– warrior, (masculine) (mu-HAR-ib)_

**Athosian phrases  
**Fratrem meum – brother of mine.  
Transiens Vitae – Passing of Life


	10. 9 - Eternal Memory

Disclaimer: I don't own anything. Surprise, surprise.

Credit goes to Phoenix Catcher for letting me borrow some of the ideas behind his story, "Cast Between Worlds," found on this site.

An * means a footnote, usually for explaining or elaborating on military jargon.

I'm sorry this took so long - I got distracted by writing other stories. And coursework. And exams. And training. I'd much rather be writing, but nobody else seems to agree with me.

* * *

**Chapter 7 - Eternal Memory**

"_Out of suffering have emerged the strongest souls; the most massive characters are seared with scars."_

_Khalil Gibran_

* * *

**A week after Chapter 8 - Countdown ...**

**August 7th, 2004 – University of Cambridge (Classics Faculty), United Kingdom, Earth.**

Hermione was mildly annoyed when someone sat down in the chair across the table from her. Sure, it wasn't actually 'her' table, which made her irritation rather selfish, but her research notes were spread all across the entire surface, so it should have been obvious it was unavailable.

Her first thought was that it was yet another classically-educated, posh-sounding, air-headed Etonian berk who thought he was God's gift to women attempting to hit on her. Or possibly one of the shyer, more introverted actual scholars that also populated Cambridge, but often got edged aside by the loudmouths. If that was the case, she'd at least be polite, but a lack of self-confidence wasn't exactly attractive either. Anyway, she was doing fine single right now.

Either way, she still slid her wand out from the forearm holster and held it on the visitor under the table as she looked up; he was neither.

He was considerably older than she expected, obviously, being at least fifty, with a round face, blunt features and receding blonde hair, dressed in a sharp black suit and overcoat with a disconcertingly vibrant red tie. In fact, he looked like a much older, more battered version of Neville Longbottom; if Neville ever became a government bureaucrat, which this guy clearly was.

"Miss Hermione Granger?"

"That very much depends on who's asking."

The man raised an eyebrow. "And if I were someone you didn't want to talk to?"

Hermione relaxed, slightly. If he wanted to hurt her he wouldn't be humouring her like that. Besides, the only people who were still out for her blood were the remnants of the pureblood supremacist movement, and most of them were on the Continent these days. The final battle - specifically, that hammer of God artillery strike the Army had brought down - had proven to be something of a Darwinian event for British Wizarding politics, as the majority of the right-wing body politic had been eliminated permanently.

Unconsciously, she rubbed her right shoulder. Her round-collar T-shirt hid the messy patch of scar tissue that even magical healing had been unable to remove. Antonin Dolohov's last spell had nearly blown her arm off; the same psycho who had nearly sliced her in two in the Department of Mysteries.

"In that case," Hermione answered, "I think you'll find Miss Granger is in the Abyssinian Art and Culture section, one story up and at the other end of the building." Her visitor smirked as she continued. "And don't be surprised if I've packed up and moved to the Starbucks across the road by the time you get back."

"I see. Well, Miss Granger, I'm Harold Pearce, with the Security Service." He flicked out an ID wallet for her to see.

_Didn't Harry mention that name at some point? And Kingsley?_

As she scrutinized his ID card - naming him 'Sir Harold Pearce, KCB' - he placed a small silver metal cylinder on the table with his other hand, flicking a simple switch on the top. "Magical battery. Powers a small, portable set of privacy and silencing wards," he explained to her, then dryly added, "the latest thing from Q branch."

"By which you mean …"

"Those very creative fellows down in the Ministry basement. Level 9, I believe."

_Department of Mysteries. I hadn't figured them for the progressive types. Maybe they were somewhat suppressed under the old administration. Wouldn't surprise me. _

"As for what I'm doing here, well …" Pearce continued, "delivery boy, more than anything else. Very humbling." He didn't sound all that put out about it though, as he withdrew an envelope from his coat and pushed it across the table at her; it was a 'bluey,' a British Forces Post Office aerogram letter. Only one person she knew used them.

_Hermione Granger, Pinehurst Street, Cambridge, UK, CB7 5QS,_ the envelope read in the blocky, highly legible writing Harry had been forced to learn after going to military school. Apparently chicken-scratch quill-style scribblings hadn't been acceptable, for which she was supremely grateful. Figuring out Harry's homework and notes had always given her a headache.

Knowing Harry, the letter inside would probably give her one too.

It was, like most missives he sent, short and to the point.

* * *

From: F-Lt. Potter, H. J., (RAF), BFPO Credenhill Barracks, Hereford, HR7 7DD.

Posted From: Cheyenne Mountain AFS, 101 Norad Road, CO 80906, United States; Forwarded through the British Consulate, Denver, CO.

_Dear Hermione, _

_By the time you get this letter, I will probably have dropped out of contact a few weeks ago. Nothing to worry about; you know what I do. _

_The man who gave this has a job offer for you. He won't be able to fully explain what it is; it's classified. However, you SHOULD take it. You will never regret it if you do. _

_You're probably doubting my sanity right now, since I know you hate not having any information to go on. This isn't something you can research, Hermione. You're going to have to trust me on this. Have a little faith._

_Take the job offer. It's out of this world. _

_Harry_

_P.S. If 'Old Harry' is delivering this in person - which he should be, because I asked him to - tell him I owe him one._

* * *

"He owes you one," was all Hermione was going to reveal about the letter. _It's out of this world? Have a little faith? What the hell does he mean by that? And where is Cheyenne Mountain? I need to look up American postal codes … CO … not California … definitely a headache coming on now. Damn you Harry._

"A few more than just one," was the response. Hermione looked up.

"You're the guy who Kingsley rather obliquely mentioned when he became minister, aren't you."

"I'm not sure, what did he say?" Hermione wasn't buying it. He probably knew exactly what she meant.

"I believe it was in a speech to the Wizengamot, and I'm paraphrasing here, but he was calling for a vote of thanks to ... 'Harry and the spooks,' I think." Most of the old fuddy-duddies had probably thought he meant Harry _Potter_, and the soldiers he'd brought, who had packed up and disappeared immediately after annihilating the Death Eaters before anyone could thank them, or ask them anything.

"Ah yes, that. Kingsley has a very repressed sense of humor, but it's there. I asked he keep my name out of it, even if my department was going to be publicly acknowledged as working with the Aurors. After thirty years in this business, a little paranoia isn't just healthy, it's plain common sense."

"Constant vigilance?"

"Well, Alastor Moody may be … mostly insane, but he's right about that. Reasonable paranoia is a survival trait."

"How's he doing?" An innocent question, but also a test.

The reply was immediate. "Back in the job, with a new cutting-edge prosthetic from us, and an upgraded eye from the Unspeakables. Chief Instructor at the revamped and improved Auror Academy, and loving every second of it." Pearce raised an eyebrow. "Have you sufficiently tested that I am not an impostor? You probably should have done it earlier; granted, you don't know me from Adam, so you probably hadn't figured out what to ask."

_Yeah, he's probably the genuine article. Or the best actor since Laurence Olivier._

"What's the job?"

"Can't say. What I can say, is that it's in Colorado, they want to meet you in a couple of days if you can get away, and the paycheck's apparently rather good." He handed over a folder. "Plane tickets are in there, if you need to change them call the number on the card stapled to them."

"Anything else? That wasn't much." She flicked through the folder. "The US Air Force?"

"Her Majesty's Government fully endorses the project." _Well that is so very helpful_.

"What do they want me for? I can't imagine they want an ancient cultures anthropologist, so, what, for magic?"

"Both. Mostly the ancient cultures stuff, because although your boss and a few others are aware of magic, most people on the base won't be. You'll still be under the Statute of Secrecy, for as long as it lasts anyway."

"What on Earth could interest the American military about ancient history?"

Pearce just looked back at her, the slightest hint of a smirk breaking through his professional mien. "What on Earth, indeed?"

* * *

**A week later ...**

**August 14****2004, Sparring Room, East Pier, City of Atlantis, Lantea, Pegasus Galaxy**

"You're slipping, Harry. Your defeat will be soon be upon you, I am sure."

The sparring room was filled with a rhythmic 'clack-clack-clack' as Harry answered that with a quick combination of strikes before replying as they circled.

"Words are just words, _sadiiqi. _Match them to actions, and then we shall see."

Sparring nearly every other day for several weeks, usually for several bouts meant Harry was quickly running out of tricks. He might be bantering back at Teyla just like usual, but he knew she was right, but not because he was slipping. Teyla was a quick study, rarely falling for his little tricks twice and using some of them right back on him. Soon his only advantage would be just the physical side - reach, strength, actual combat experience. Teyla had flexibility and had quickly been able to match the blinding speed that allowed him to dominate most fights, forcing him to slow down and be more cautious and defensive.

Harry won this one too - a quick set of overpowered strikes on the right side put Teyla too off balance to get out of the way of a lightning quick leg sweep that wouldn't normally have knocked her down; however, this was their third go-round this morning, and they were both showing the strain of nearly an hour and a quarter of hand-to-hand practice.

Harry stood above Teyla's prone form and stretched out, looking up at the ceiling. A mistake, as it turned out.

"You know Teyla, I'm beginning to think you _like_ all this practice you're getting at falling over."

Looking upwards, he missed Teyla's smirk, just before she kicked his own legs out from under him. Harry crashed to the mats beside her in a very ungainly fashion, completely winded.

"Oof!"

"So do you apparently," the Athosian leader laughed.

"Was that necessary?" Harry gasped out.

"No, but it was amusing." Teyla abruptly rolled over and sat astride his stomach. Given that he was winded, her weight wasn't helping … which was probably why she did it. Teyla could be a very underhanded fighter when she put her mind to it. There probably weren't any sexual overtones to it in her mind, as the Athosians were a very physical people, with various hugs, embraces, and so on occurring often in their social interaction, apparently without any particular restriction to, say, family members, friends or any other such structures. For Harry, however … it was just _slightly_ awkward, even though he'd become accustomed to the Athosians' friendship gestures. To her, the impulsive use of him as a comfy seat was just how she'd mess around with any close friend she sparred against.

It didn't help that Teyla was quite possibly the most humble, unassuming person he'd ever met, and was completely unaware of her beauty. Actually, Harry amended, that wasn't quite true. She knew _others_ considered her beautiful, and could use it when required, but for the most part she just didn't much care what anyone thought of her looks.

"I think this counts as a defeat, Captain," she mused mock-thoughtfully, tapping her lips, and apparently completely unaware of his train of thought. "After all, one should be mindful of the enemy at all times, even if you think they are out of the fight. Perhaps especially then, yes?"

"Your Yoda impression needs some work." Harry groaned, not bothering to shift her off.

"Yoda?" Teyla looked down at him blankly.

"I thought Shep showed you the old Star Wars films last week? Little green alien, dispenser of sage, often cryptic advice?"

_Dobby's great-something-grandfather, quite possibly … I wish._

"Oh! Yes, I remember. _Do or do not, there is no try. _Aiden and John took great satisfaction in quoting most of the characters before they spoke. Rodney spent most of the movie complaining about inaccurate science, like there not actually being any sound in vacuum, which he had to explain for quite a bit to me."

Harry laughed. "Yep. That sounds about right."

"Stop distracting me," Teyla chided. "Are you going to give it up?"

"Not a chance! That doesn't count and you know it." Harry finally heaved her off to one side, and sat up. "Besides, I'm running out of ideas. You'll have me knocked down this time next week, probably."

"I'll make a special effort," Teyla promised with a grin. "What next?"

"Breakfast. It's too late to start anything new. Tomorrow, I'll break out the _karambits_ and we can start on those."

"But I already know knife-fighting?"

"Not with _karambits._ They're a bit more specialised but way more effective than a straight blade when close in, and they'll suit your style. Also, Santorini's finished the known distance and pop-up target ranges here on the East Pier, so we can start training on proper marksmanship rather than the indoor short range primer you've had up until now." Harry grinned, struck by a thought. "Who knows, maybe I'll turn you into a sniper yet."

"Would that be difficult?"

"Hmmm … well, to be a truly gifted shooter there's just a feeling, an x-factor, something that just jumps long-range shooting from mathematics to intuition; there's a guy I know in the SBS who I swear can just _will_ the rounds to the target. But just about anyone can learn to shoot well out to the thousand-yard range. That's just ballistics, it's mostly predictable. Wind can be a pain in the ass, but again, it's not impossible."

_Of course, it's easier if you can actually _control_ the wind yourself. If you ain't cheatin', you ain't trying._

"I take it you are a good sniper?"

"Pretty good, yeah." Harry heaved himself up, reached down to assist Teyla, and began his cool-down stretches. "Come on, all this jumping around's made me hungry."

* * *

The command breakfast had been shifted a few weeks before to seven-thirty rather than six as that had been deemed 'unnecessarily early.'

_Read: the Major needs his beauty sleep, _mused Harry as he entered the mess hall, which was about half-full. Setting his tray down opposite Sheppard, he regarded the CO for a second before sitting down.

"You don't look so hot, sir."

Sheppard didn't even look up from stirring a large amount of sugar into his coffee, growling - actually growling, "Your opinion is noted, _Captain_." _Oooh, burn. I should probably stop ribbing him so much before he's had a chance to re-caffeinate. _

Weir didn't look up from the tablet she was working on next to him, but her smirk said it all, mirroring Harry's thought. _Definitely not a morning person._ Teyla came in a few minutes later, and then McKay shortly after.

"You're late, Doctor."

"So was she!" McKay protested, pointing at Teyla.

"Well, we spent the last hour and a half knocking each other to the floor, Doctor. Well," Harry smirked at her, "I did, anyway_._" Teyla just gave him a half-amused, half-exasperated look.

"Still haven't beaten him?" Weir asked her.

"Not yet. But I will." Teyla replied, smiling sweetly at Harry, who shuddered theatrically.

"Terrified, _al'zeyma._"

Sheppard grinned slightly at his smartass tone. "Oh, you're building yourself up for a fall there, Exec."

"I know, I know, I just can't seem to help myself."

"All right, who wants to go first?" Weir asked, sitting back.

"I got it." Sheppard said, sitting up. "The three-missions-per-day timetable which was originally planned seems to work fine, with each team going out every four days. AR-Two, Five and Seven are heading out today, with Four and Twelve still offworld having left yesterday. Nine was supposed to be still offworld, but the planet was uninhabited and pretty uninteresting as far as they could tell. I'm sure the fact the gate was in the planet's equivalent of the Sahara had nothing_ at all _to do with that rapid assessment. It's been scheduled for a Jumper survey run in a couple of days. Oh, and we lost another MALP to a spacegate yesterday too."

"How many are left?"

"Six."

"Hmmm … If we lose any more, could we pick them up by sending a Jumper straight through after them?" Weir looked at Harry, as the best pilot - something that irritated Sheppard immensely.

"Possibly, but not recommended. The MALP's would barely fit into the cargo bay of the Jumper, and it'd be tumbling like crazy in zero-G." Harry shook his head. "If the Jumpers had some kind of Star Wars tractor beam, maybe, but they don't."

"Okay. Let's be more careful in future, surely there's some sort of notation in the address database as to whether or not it a gate is in fact a spacegate?"

"Probably," McKay volunteered, "but we still don't have decent translations for a lot of the more technical terms in Ancient, and the database is still being … uncooperative. I'll check the entries for the one above the Wraith homeworld and that other one and see if there's any similar symbols."

"Good. Harry?"

"Mostly thanks to the transporters, we've got base infrastructure and training facilities set up. Master Gunnery Sergeant Santorini finished putting together the ranges on the East Pier yesterday, and says he'll be done with the kill-house by lunch."

"Uh …" The three civilians looked somewhat perturbed at that. "What, exactly, is a 'kill house'?" asked Weir carefully.

"Training building for room-to-room fighting. Santorini's picked out a six-story block on the outer edge of the West Pier that doesn't have any labs in it, just empty apartments that were mildly damaged by flooding. Normally a kill house'd be a live-fire training area, but given our ammunition limitations we're restricting non-operations use to a relative minimum, just basic training for offworld team members and preventing skill-fade for the rest of the Marines. Everything else will have to be dry-run, although there is some allocated for running the Athosian volunteers though longer-range shooting."

"How is our ammo state?" Sheppard asked.

"Still ninety-seven percent on five-point-seven millimeter. Ninety-eight on five-five-six, and a hundred on everything else. As I said, I'm being very cautious about using it for training, and there hasn't been much offworld action."

"How much, exactly, did we bring?" McKay asked, only slightly nervously. "Because, you know, I'd rather not run out of bullets any time soon?"

"Let's see … we've got ten pallets of five-point-seven for the P-90s, 700,000 total, and five pallets each of nine mil, five-five-six, seven-six-two, forty-five and fifty cal. And that's not including link for the MG's, or forty mil grenades, or the missiles, or the mortar rounds, all of which are counted separately." Harry shrugged at McKay's slightly reassured expression - on the one hand, they had a lot of ammo. On the other, they had a lot of ammo _and_ it really _wasn't_ very far away if something went wrong.

"We had the gate open for nearly the entire thirty-eight minutes to ship stuff through from Earth after all," Harry continued. "We've got plenty of dakka, Doctor McKay, don't worry about it. Somehow, I don't think we're quite reduced to throwing rocks yet." Harry gave him a piercing glance. "Although from what I hear, that may be more effective in your case."

"Er … why's that?" Sheppard inquired cautiously, eyeing the now wilting McKay.

"Staff Stackhouse might have mentioned something about the multiple PhD here managing to eject the magazine when trying to pull the trigger. This was with an M9, by the way, so …"

Sheppard rounded on McKay, rather concerned he'd been in combat with the guy already. "Rodney! How the hell … that's pretty much the safest handgun around!"

"It's got so many things on it, decocking levers, like a bazillion other catches …" Rodney trailed off at Sheppard's glare.

"You're a genius, figure it out. Help me out here, Harry."

"Way ahead of you there, boss. Remedial lessons, Doctor McKay. After breakfast, every day for a fortnight, starting today. Stackhouse is expecting you."

"But I've got things to …" McKay trailed off again under the combined death glares of the two officers. Given Harry's … unique facial features, his was rather more intimidating than Sheppard's. "Uh … okay. Got it."

"Thank you."

Weir had just been watching the byplay, amused. When they'd finished, she turned to the Athosian at the table. "Teyla?"

"My people are fine, although some have suggested moving on." Teyla shrugged. "We are not city people, we are farmers, and wanderers, not really soldiers, and definitely not scientists. This city, while mythical, amazing, and many other words to us, is not exactly our natural habitat, you might say. I believe some feel … underutilized here, or at the very least restless, and would prefer something more familiar."

"Any ideas on that?" Harry asked quietly. "Aside from moving out, that is? Other volunteers for offworld trips?"

"If there was land on this planet, it might make a secure new home. Maybe a few more volunteers will come forward. Aside from that?" Teyla shrugged. "No, I have not been able to think of anything."

"That's something we've got time to think about though, thank God," Weir observed. "Rodney?"

"We've found the, or perhaps 'a' control chair. Top floor of tower number seventeen, east side of the inner city."

"That's your day planned out, Captain." Weir pointed at Harry. "Figure out what you can do with it."

"Got it." Harry looked at Sheppard. "Take my place running the first exercise in the killing house later?"

"Could you please not call it that?" Weir asked with a pained look, over the top of Sheppard's affirmative. "It doesn't exactly inspire … confidence. Or feelings of safety."

"And political correctness follows us to other galaxies, apparently." Harry muttered. A little too loudly, but fortunately Weir merely raised an eyebrow. "Yes, _ma'am_." The mild look became a short glower. _She really hates that, doesn't she?_ "The MOUT house, then."

"Which is …?" Teyla asked, resignedly. Harry could just see her thought: _More acronyms_.

"Military Operations in Urban Terrain. I believe that's what you Yanks call it, Major."

"Yep." Sheppard nodded. "I suppose you _Limey's_ call it something else?"

"Fish and Chips."

"What?"

"That … was dinner a few days ago." Teyla said, mildly confused.

"Acronyms, again. FISH and CHIPS*." Harry explained with a perfectly serious expression. "Meaning 'Fighting In Somebody's House' and 'Causing Havoc In People's Streets."

"Riiight." Sheppard rolled his eyes. "British humor."

"British military humor." Harry corrected. "Best in the world. And the Milky Way. And Pegasus too, since the Wraith seem like a pretty humorless bunch. Although I hear Jaffa jokes are too funny for words."

"Enough." Weir interjected, trying to get remotely back on track. "Anything else?"

"Nope." "Not from me." "No ma'am." Teyla just shook her head.

"Well then, from me. I've got … let's see … complaint from Kavanagh."

"What is it this time?"

"Same as last time. In fact," Weir pulled up another email on her tablet, "it's exactly the same message. He changed the date at the top."

"Junk it." Harry snorted. "Moving on from everybody's least favorite scientist."

"Next … Rodney, how are the sensors coming?"

"Working on it, with some success. A lot of the piers' internal volume has flood damage, that seems to have knocked out quite a lot of the city grid, but Grodin got access to the short range sensor array yesterday evening, which is located on the top and sides of the control tower and was behind the shield. We can see 'upwards' so to speak a few light-minutes using what we think are a combination of gravitic and subspace sensors, and horizontally across most of this hemisphere of the planet using more traditional, just vastly upgraded radar and lidar*."

"Anything interesting?"

"Might be a landmass just out of effective range on the far side; the sensors are hyper-advanced, but they still can't see the planet's other hemisphere clearly without satellite coverage, none of which seems to have survived. The database is, as you know, being difficult and we can't find anything on the planet. In orbit, we've caught glimpses of what looks like a massive orbital platform at one of the system's Lagrange Points; again, database isn't helpful on that topic."

"But we could reach it by Jumper?"

"We could. Speaking of which, the Jumper bay has a hatch for exiting into the atmosphere, we just haven't figured out which sub-routine opens it yet. Might need the Captain for that one."

Harry sighed. "It's so nice to be needed."

* * *

The Ancient control chair was located on the uppermost floor of a medium-tall skyscraper on the East side of Atlantis' inner city. The large windowless circular room was veritably bustling with personnel from Zelenka's engineering department, as well as McKay and several other physicists who had experience with the Antarctic outpost. They had been working all night to jury rig an interface between the Earth computers and the chair, in order to monitor and record the interactions of any users for later analysis.

"Morning Radek." Harry removed his tac vest and jacket as he entered, leaving them by the door. "You look tired."

Zelenka did indeed look exhausted, but was still reasonably alert, buoyed up by excitement. "I am, it's been a long night. But if your deeper interfacing with the Jumper, the medical equipment and the door are anything to go by, then it is likely that this chair will be even more important. We believe it is capable of controlling the entire city, or at the very least the weapons and spaceflight systems."

"What about the database and secondary systems?"

The Ancient database had stubbornly refused to cooperate, despite the best efforts of the very dedicated expedition staff. While there was some more 'organized' so-called 'patches' of data, they appeared to only contain basic information concerning the Wraith, gate addresses, the city and suchlike, but offered tantalizing glimpses of deeper knowledge.

Much like an encyclopedia would refer readers to other points of interest, the basic Ancient files they could access referred to other entries, usually by a complex serial number which also worked like a hyperlink. However, the original theory - that the Ancient's had 'scrambled' the database before they left - seemed to have been borne out; trying to search the database for the aforementioned file numbers turned up incorrect, unrelated, usually completely useless information and occasionally even the same entry, as if the software was actively routing them away from what they wanted to find.

Manually 'unscrambling' the encryption and cyber-defense algorithms designed by the bloody _Gate-builders _would probably be very, very hard even for the Asgard; doing it with Earth's present level of technology? Flat impossible. The expedition only had tablets, laptops and a couple of larger mainframes, not multi-billion-dollar supercomputers - which still wouldn't be enough. Their only hope was reversing it - that was when Zelenka, already thinking about the possibilities presented by Harry's ability with Ancient hardware, wondered out loud in a meeting with Weir whether or not he could do _something_ with the database; _anything_, really. Exactly _what_ that would be, no one was sure.

Thus, yet another duty for the executive officer. Joy.

"That would indeed be a excellent side effect, but I'll take what we can get."

Harry eyed the chair dubiously. Zelenka saw his look and added not-helpfully, "It's a chair, Captain. You sit in it."

Harry glared. "Thank you _ever_ so much."

"My pleasure." Zelenka smiled. He was one of the few scientists not scared by Harry's scars and general demeanour. "Now sit."

Harry approached the chair cautiously. Although his interactions with Ancient technology up until this point had been benign, he was well aware of what happened when Carson sat in the one back on Earth, and he really didn't want to start randomly firing Ancient drone weapons at senior officers. Still, he waited as the techs attached some electrodes to his temples to monitor brain activity, and then sat without any further arguments.

To the observers in the room, the expected reactions occurred. The floor and chair lit up, the backrest tilted over. All normal.

Not for the operator, however. Major Sheppard had mentioned that sitting in the control chair in Antarctica made him feel connected, peripherally, to _something_, but to get anything at all to happen he had to concentrate extremely hard on whatever that was for several seconds before any response.

"Captain?" McKay tried.

"Yes, Doc?" Harry's voice was slightly strained, and he had his eyes shut.

"You all right?"

"Yep. Just … assimilating."

"Are the Borg coming?" asked Radek dryly.

"What? Oh … no. But the space vampires might be."

"Heh. What's it like?" The ATA gene treatment hadn't taken with Zelenka, and Harry knew he was intensely curious about any Ancient technology - more so than most of the expedition, as he was the second-most expert on it after Rodney McKay. Fortunately he was also smart enough to be cautious with the things.

"Remember how I described the other Ancient systems?"

"Yes …"

When asked about his previous interactions with Ancient tech, Harry had tried to find analogies from Earth. The door, being essentially single-function, had been like an old-fashioned and simplistic MS-DOS Command Prompt function from Microsoft Windows in his mind. The medical bed had been similar, but only because it had been mostly shut down - there had been a feeling of more complex capabilities beyond the surface. The Jumper, well, that was of course fully active, but had a different feel, as it was mostly automated. Like an avionics system from Earth, its' programming was by necessity far too complex and high-speed to comprehend all at once, and so while Harry had operated it, it had also only really been surface contact - and he hadn't much deeper for fear of messing up something.

"This is so much more."

"Can you find another analogy? Those were rather helpful for us mere mortals."

"Maybe. I'm trying to think of … what is it … oh, yeah. Tron."

"Tron?" Zelenka asked somewhat incredulously. "The film? 1982?"

"Yeah. Watched it years ago, back in school. Try to imagine actually, physically appearing to be _inside_ the computer system, right? But I can also feel the chair I'm sitting in, so I'm still _here, _but I'm also _there_."

"So I take it you can, uh, 'see' the chair's systems?"

"Not just the chair, Radek. The whole bloody _city_."

To Harry, it was like standing in a shadowy Atlantis, with nearly all of the lights turned out - representing, he thought, that most of the systems were dark and non-functional, although he could still 'see' them. Certain areas glowed - the central tower, particularly Stargate Operations, for obvious reasons, and a few other buildings that the expedition had teams in today. Power conduits that ran throughout the city shone weakly, the naquadah generators providing barely more than a trickle compared to the output of three parallel Zero Point Modules. Information networks flickered slightly here and there, a web of lines linking larger nodes of data, but when he 'looked' closer, they seemed twisted, warped …

_Must be the database. Scrambled deliberately, or damaged?_

Then 'behind' him - inside the system - a voice. A female voice.

"Finally!"

_WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT!_

* * *

Harry spun around.

In front of him was a - what, a hologram? Construct? - of a black-haired woman with blue eyes in a white-silver-gold robe or gown, with bulky epaulette-styled padded shoulders over an armoured-looking gold breastplate. It looked ceremonial, rather than functional, and was impressive if a little gaudy.

_So what is she? It? AI, or some sort of electronic entity like the SGC had a few years back?_

_No harm in asking._

The image was just standing there patiently, apparently waiting for him to get over the shock.

"Um. Hi." _Wow. Eloquent, Harry. Really intelligent-sounding. _

"I've been waiting for someone to sit in that chair since you arrived," the 'woman' replied, apparently exasperated but not actually angry.

"So … who are you, exactly? Or what?"

"I am Tyche, the net-mind of Atlantus*." The 'command system' frowned slightly, which was mildly disconcerting. "You would call me, let's see, an Artificial Intelligence. Of Atlan_tis_, apparently the name has changed in the last ten thousand years."

"Okay," Harry said cautiously. "How are you speaking English?"

"Technically we're not speaking at all, since this is in your mind." 'Tyche' pointed out. "But to answer your question, the chair you are sitting in is what you would call a 'neural synthesis chair,' a system that allows a computer to access your knowledge, including language, in order to learn, and also in this case to communicate with you. The chair itself is a command interface, allowing City officers to interact in tandem with me to control the city with far finer delicacy and precision than even a fully trained command crew could up in the control room."

"So I really am seeing the city all around us."

"Yes, and diagrams of the various system networks, primary, secondary and non-critical. The three-dimensional representation of the city overlaid with diagrams of those systems was determined as the most efficient manner of information transfer regarding city control for operators."

"I see. How much of the city can operate without you?"

"All of it, as it is right now. Except the weapons and stardrives, which I would only have control over with a command member in the loop, or if the lockouts were overriden by the High Council."

Aware he was talking to an apparently fully intelligent entity that would probably be fully capable of kicking them out of the city if he answered wrong, Harry carefully asked, "What is your exact function?"

"My function is managing and maintenance of Atlantis; I can however take control of any system if the user needs to focus on one particular area, such as using offensive weapons, or in the event the user is incapacitated. There are several other AIs too with less capability but who specialize in particular duties, for example Panacea, the Medical AI*. However, I normally control secondary systems that are essentially too minor for control staff to continually oversee, and monitor the rest in order to aid users in interpreting and prioritising the vast quantity of data at their fingertips - literally, as the neural synthesis takes place through the gel contact pads on the armrests of the chair you are presently using."

"From your greeting, I assume you know about the Expedition, but you just said the city was operating without you … why haven't you come forward before?"

"The Stargate's activation triggered an automatic attempt to bring me out of standby, but there was insufficient power. Had I brought my processing core fully online, the remaining 0.003% power remaining would have been drained in minutes. I judged the shield more important given how little power remained, and assessed it as likely that you had a Zero Point Module with which to power the city, since you'd managed to generate an inter-galactic wormhole, which usually requires one. That judgement made, I returned to standby status to give you more time to find and install that ZPM." Tyche shrugged apologetically. "Since you haven't yet, 'I' am still in standby mode. This representation you are speaking to is not really 'me' as such, but a rote-response programme written to anticipate any questions you might have."

"Written when?"

"In the three point five eight seconds I spent activated after the incoming wormhole opened."

"You … wrote a conversation program that could cover _anything _I might ask in three seconds when not fully, uh, awake?"

"Technically I did it in one point five eight once I decided I would have to return to standby, but who's counting?"

"I am. Impressive." Harry paused to think about what he'd been told just now.

"Can you help us with the Database?"

"Maintenance of the knowledge archives is part of my core programming."

"Can you ... fix it?"

"I can remove the active cyber-protections. I do, however, have to be fully activated to do so."

Harry groaned. "Let me guess, that's going to require a Zero Point Module."

"Yes, or an equivalent power source. And I have prepared a list of several gate addresses where outposts with Zero Point Modules were deployed." Five lines of gate symbols appeared hovering in mid-air beside Tyche as the AI continued.

"There was also a mobile geothermal power station positioned on the sea floor somewhere below the city, but I am presently unsure of both its exact location and integrity."

"Hang on again … if you're shut down and this is an automatic programme, how are you learning our terminology?"

"_I_ am not. The chair is its own system, capable of semi-autonomous operation, like the Gateships. As such _it_ is translating from the Lantean I originally wrote the program in, into English, and using your knowledge to both translate and fill in the terminology."

"Could we use our naquadah generators to power your processors or whatever directly?"

"No, I do not believe so. Based on Lantean research into the output of power sources based on naquadah, you would need a generator with a naquadah core twice the diameter of the Stargate. If the devices are Stargate-portable, somehow I doubt you have one that powerful. If you want to try, my processor core is located there."

An area of the city flashed, in the 'basement' as they'd called it, of the inner city; underneath the base of one of the towers on the West side, that had been designated W-7.

"One final question before I go back to …" Harry looked around, "the real world."

"Certainly."

"Do all control chairs have AIs as a part of them? Because there's one in an outpost on Earth, and as far as I'm aware none of the researchers found an AI there."

"No. While this program does not include information on that outpost, here the chair and myself are separate systems; the chair however was the only piece of technology capable of translating your language and therefore making this conversation happen, so I chose to upload this program here and wait for you to find the chair. Bear in mind my initial assessment included a number of mistakes; that you would have a ZPM, for example. This was a contingency plan at best."

"Only the chair? The jumpers could translate."

"The Gateships are locked out unless I or the Central Control duty officers initiate contact to download data from them. The Wraith tried infiltrating Atlantis several times during the war with computer viruses that were inserted and lay dormant within the Jumper systems when they were out scouting, and became active when they returned to the city."

"You weren't kidding when you said you covered every eventuality in the conversation, were you?"

Tyche smirked smugly - actually smirked. Harry was having difficulty believing this wasn't the AI or even a person instead of a pre-written program. "No, I wasn't; I am a Class Five AI, not only one the most capable ever built by the Lanteans, but one of the oldest and thus most experienced. My program covered ten thousand possible questions, including that one, and the program is also capable of extrapolating new answers from the already-written ones in response to unanticipated queries."

"Alright. Thank you, that's enough for now."

* * *

Harry opened his eyes and sat up, trailing electrode wires. Looking around, it seemed the entire tech crew in the room was staring at him.

"What?"

"Um … you just sat there for about fifteen seconds then sat up again," Radek volunteered. "Shouldn't we be asking that?"

"You didn't hear any of that?"

"Of what?"

'_Technically we're not speaking at all, since this is your mind.'_

"Oh." Harry said, intelligently. "Where to begin … Radek, remember that conversation we had in the Jumper when AR-One got stuck in the wormhole?"

"Yes, about AIs …" Radek trailed off, eyes widening. Rodney jumped in incredulously.

"An honest-to-god AI?"

"Yeah. Called Tyche. Dormant at the moment, shut down."

"So … how were you talking to it?"

"Um … she called it a rote response programme." Harry rubbed his head, aware that a punishing headache was building. "Could you get Weir and Shep up here, so I only have to say this once? And some bloody asprin, please?"

* * *

"The city has an AI. Several, in fact. They're currently dormant, but are obviously extremely capable and apparently friendly. The main one, Tyche, has provided us with a list of possible ZPM locations and this geothermal plant." Weir paused in her summary of Harry's report and looked down at the list of gate addresses Harry had transcribed. "I'm at a bit of a loss as for what to say actually. I really wasn't expecting anything like this."

"A diplomat, lost for words?" Harry snarked from where Beckett was examining him. He held a canteen, washing down even more asprin. "Will the wonders ever cease?"

"Can it, Harry," Sheppard warned, but he was smirking too.

"Can it, _both_ of you." Weir rolled her eyes, muttering "I'm surrounded by children!"

"Hey!" Rodney protested. Weir gave him a look that clearly said, _You're the worst of the lot._

"Well, Major, make these addresses a priority." Weir handed the list to Sheppard. "How's the captain, Carson?"

"He's fine, as far as I can tell," the CMO replied. "He might be starting to go through something similar to when Colonel O'Neill downloaded the Ancient Database, from what you reported, Captain."

"I don't think so …" The Czech engineer mused.

"Why?"

"Well, first, the database in the city itself is mostly either locked out or cyber-walled or whatever. Second, the AI, this Tyche said that, if she was operational, she would handle most city systems while you concentrated on the main ones, taking the load off as it were."

"You think my brain was under stress trying to control the city without AI support, thus causing this migraine? I was only in it for ten seconds."

"Essentially, yes. Your brain activity shot up considerably for those ten seconds."

"But most of the city appeared shut down," Harry reminded him, "I wasn't controlling anything."

"True. But the chair might have been _trying_ to open links to the inoperable systems, which would still put your mind under stress, maybe …" Radek trailed off, shrugging. "This is so far beyond our technology, we're basically speculating. Getting that AI online will answer a lot of questions I'm sure."

"Hmmm … Major, you want to test drive?" Harry pointed to it. "While we all know I have a funky connection to Ancient systems, perhaps it will still respond to the baseline level of ATA strength?"

"Or overload them," Beckett put in.

"True." Sheppard looked at the chair warily. "I'll pass for now, thanks, until we can power up the city properly. But at least we now have a line on some ZPMs."

"That are also ten thousand years and possibly drained as well," McKay pointed out.

"Always with the glass-half-empty negativity, aren't you Rodney?"

* * *

**A week later …**

**August 21 2004, Known Distance (KD) Range, East Pier, City of Atlantis, Lantea, Pegasus Galaxy**

Teyla's final shot punched through the paper outline of a Wraith some wit had printed out to replace the regular 'Figure 11' targets, slightly low and left of the small white square taped on the centre of mass.

The previous week had been relatively normal, for Atlantis, anyway. They located the AI Core, but the naquadah generators weren't enough to power it. Further exploration of the 'basement' had revealed some more prosaic aspects of city technology; extensive hydroponic beds for growing crops under the west pier, for example.

In fact, although they'd checked over half the buildings on the upper side of the city by now, it was clear they'd barely even scratched the surface of the city as a whole. The 'base' of the city was an enormous labyrinth of infrastructure systems, power conduits, engineering access corridors and so on; it was going to take them years to even check it all, let alone study it.

Tyche's conversation programme _had_ responded to Sheppard, who'd decided to take his chances with the chair, but he'd only managed a few sentences with it before falling unconscious, suffering from the mental 'pressure' of the chair interface far worse than Harry; he had, at least, confirmed Harry wasn't insane or delusional to the rest of them. He'd recovered quickly once out of it, with the same headache, and Beckett's scans showed they were both fine, with brain activity returned to normal and no sign of the 'O'Neill Curse.'

Harry waited for the rest of the Athosian shooters - they'd picked up several more volunteers in the last few weeks - to finish their magazines. Today he was teaching longer range combat marksmanship, from one, two and three hundred meters. Due to the stiff breeze that had been blowing from the South today, that had included compensating for wind at different ranges - no change in aim at 100m, offset half a target at 200m in a light breeze, a full target in a strong one, etcetera. At the moment, the breeze had 'conveniently' died down, so the group could fire measured groupings from 300 meters as a final test - there wasn't much point measuring groupings when the breeze was forcing them to aim several meters off-centre, after all.

They were doing pretty well at the three hundred mark, Harry judged. They were certainly well motivated; even the gentle giant Halling had an intense hatred of the Wraith, but they listened very carefully and put a lot of effort in; it helped that they were all already in decent physical condition from farming and hunting.

When they went forward to the targets - and damn if he wasn't missing the electronic range systems from back home - Harry went down the line measuring the groupings and suggesting areas of improvement for their shooting technique. When he reached Teyla he got … 46 mil. Her previous scores had been 57 and 51 at two and one hundred meters respectively. Considering a minimum 'pass' in British regs for 300 meters was one hundred fifty, and one hundred for infantrymen, that was both well above average and clearly not a fluke.

"Nice. Consistent. Although …" Harry pointed at the grouping, "see how they're all low and left? Since we zeroed properly at the beginning, and there's no breeze, the most likely cause of that is that you're anticipating the recoil, pushing into the weapon with your shoulder as you pull the trigger. You're not used to the 5.56 calibre M4s yet, so that's normal." There wasn't much point shooting P-90s outdoors at anything over 200 meters, so they were using the bigger assault rifles for this.

"How do I correct that?" Teyla frowned.

"Familiarity with the weapons, mostly." Harry shrugged. "That's why the Marines keep practicing. Regardless, it's a minor issue really. The grouping's good, well above even the Marine's average, actually."

"So you'll teach me to snipe?"

Harry laughed at her enthusiasm. "To be a sniper, sure. You certainly seem to have the talent for it."

Teyla's broad smile was truly infectious, Harry realized as he returned it. And, he realized, had more of an effect on him than he'd thought. Which might not necessarily be a good thing.

* * *

The next evening, Teyla was on fire. Not literally, of course.

Their usual sparring sessions alternated each day between training with Weir and Sheppard, normally sometime in the mid-afternoon, and just the two of them, usually before breakfast but sometimes, like today, at other times if either had duties in the way.

Normally, their 'private' matches were actually about three bouts. Harry had, thus far, won every single one by virtue of knowing more dirty tricks, but had always explained whatever little maneuver he'd pulled off, and Teyla usually turned them back on him very quickly.

This time, he hadn't won yet - and they'd been going for the equivalent of two and a bit rounds without a conclusive winner.

It didn't help that the room was awash in golden light filtering through the large stained glass windows. Harry was very good at suppressing his reactions to most things, but dammit, he still had a pulse. Teyla was beautiful by any measure at any time, but when they sparred, which she always did with unbound hair flying and a frankly _bloody sexy_ traditional Athosian outfit, she was magnificent. Illuminated by the glowing light of the sunset … he had no words for her.

Except distracting.

Definitely _very_ distracting.

That was no excuse, however, for when he found himself face planted into the mat with Teyla's knee digging into his back and a _rattan_ across the back of his neck.

"YES! Finally!"

Harry chuckled at Teyla's exuberant exclamation even as she relaxed her hold and rolled off to lie beside him. She had quite the competitive streak even if she didn't act like it.

"Finally."

"Yeah." Harry propped himself on his elbows and looked at her.

Teyla caught the look. "I haven't forgotten, just so you know," she teased, before becoming more serious. "But only if you want to."

"No, I promised." Harry pushed himself up and moved a few meters slide down against the wall. Teyla sat next to him. "I don't mind. Its ties into a longer story I was going to have to tell you at some point anyway, one I was reminded of today. It's ... not a good one."

He took a deep breath. "Afghanistan, last year. Less than a year ago. I got the phoenix tattoo done a few years ago, but added the text late last year. It's in Latin, so it's similar to Athosian actually. Odd coincidence, that."

"Indeed." Teyla squeezed his hand, still holding one of the sticks. "Harry, you don't have to -"

"Yes. I should." Harry interrupted quietly, turning his hand over to hold hers. "God knows I've kept it in long enough. And I trust you, Teyla. More than anyone else I could talk to right now. Or ever."

Teyla just nodded, resting a hand on his shoulder to support him, then waiting for him to start at his own pace and kept her thoughts to herself until he was done.

"I went to school with a girl named Henrietta Kirkland. Hetty for short. She was there for me during a … a rough patch of my life, shall we say, when I first moved to that school. I was depressed, generally broody and not at all fun to be around, and she cut through all the self-pitying crap I was drowning myself in, mostly by being relentlessly cheerful, friendly … and a shameless flirt, which shocked me out of my funk when I was still a very ... innocent fifteen year old, let's say.

"She was my best friend for what I now think of as the best two years of my childhood. She taught me how to meditate, and her father taught me Eskrima. She got under my skin, then into my heart, although I'm not entirely sure when. We were close, almost inseparable by the end of school, and she was, as I said, very open about just about everything. We didn't bother with labels - girlfriend, boyfriend, friends-with-benefits, whatever. We just were. We ... clicked. We both always knew what to say or do to help the other out in anything."

_Friends are the family you choose. The only type of family Harry has. And me._

"She joined the Army, the Royal Artillery, while I went into the RAF but we stayed in contact, even though I was training bloody hard to get through Special Forces selection I always took time out to write or call her back. We didn't get much time together by that point, and the military is hell on relationships, so we came to an amicable agreement at some point. Late 2001, I think, just after 9/11, right before the War on Terror kicked off."

"Agreement?" Teyla prompted after he fell silent for a few seconds. She knew about 9/11 and the War; Harry had mentioned it more than once, and explained the background to her weeks before.

"Yeah. We agreed that if we had leave time at the same time, we spent it together, and if neither of us had found someone they liked even more - which we both thought was unlikely - by the time we were thirty, we'd get more serious about our relationship."

_Very pragmatic_. An Athosian could understand that kind of decision. With the Wraith culling their population every few decades, the tribes weren't picky about who bonded to who, just that any children were well cared for.

"I spent most of my time fighting in Afghanistan and other places, and Hetty was back in the UK but eventually her unit got deployed to Afghan late last year. She was in Helmand Province, the British zone of responsibility, the enemy's heartland, and I was hopping around all over the place, sometimes Helmand, sometimes other provinces, chasing Taliban leaders and other targets. She was artillery, not a combat soldier but support. The artillery and logistics guys get a lot of stick because everyone thinks they're safe behind the lines - they aren't, there are no 'lines' in Afghanistan, not really. Hetty was reasonably safe, as such things go, spending most of her time in the firebases but she had plenty of patrolling duties too like every other soldier out there."

_Brave woman._

"October 27th. I got a message saying a soldier was missing, believed captured, and that I should keep my eyes open because intel suggested she would be moved through my area. They weren't giving out the name at that point, not until they'd confirmed she was captured and where she was, just that the soldier was female, an officer and had auburn hair."

_I have a very bad feeling about this._ "It … was Henrietta, wasn't it?"

Harry swallowed thickly. "Yeah. Grabbed her in a convoy ambush. But the worst part was that _she_ wasn't the actual target - I was. Some _bastard _in the American HQ in Kandahar betrayed me, called Colonel Sahar. He was already compromised long before then, supplying them with info for months by that point, and purely through luck he noticed I was friendly with Hetty when saw us off-duty together on the base. He already knew I was someone the Taliban wanted dead; I'd put such a dent in their operations they had a nickname for me. He had high enough clearance to know that person was me, even if he didn't know my name, but he could also get my general location when I was in the field because he was a senior watch commander in the Joint Special Forces Operations Room. God knows how he got through security screening, but he did."

_Given how thorough they are about security here in Atlantis, I'm surprised he did. _

"Sahar passed all that to an ambitious mid-level local Taliban commander called Saleem Ulman. Ulman wanted to make a splash, make his name, so he targeted Hetty then had his mole feed tips to Coalition HQ that she was in my general area. When I eventually got confirmation it was her, I lost my focus. Badly. I was a mess, couldn't stop thinking about her, and when I moved in to recce a possible target I got jumped. Some guy slammed a rifle butt into my head, and the next thing I knew I was tied up in a cave a hundred miles away with Ulman kicking me, laughing. He was going to execute me, as a propaganda coup, but first he wanted any intel he could get out of me before an ISAF special forces team crashed his party."

Harry traced the scar that ran over his right eye. "I already had the lightning bolt shaped one at the top; had that one since I was a kid. Ulman pulled a knife and started from the bottom of it. Said something like 'that's an interesting scar, shall we make it bigger?' or some such other immature bullshit. It hurt like hell, but I'd already been shot twice back in 2001 so I'd had worse. I thought he was going to cut my eye out, but he said he was 'saving that for later.'

"Anyway," Harry's grip on her hand was painfully hard now. "Long story short. He dragged Hetty in and threatened her. I refused to tell him anything, and he beat on her in front of me, had ... had one of his men rape her, right there in front of me. I still wouldn't talk. One of his goons shot her in the thigh, cut her up with a knife. I still wasn't breaking, not to that bastard; and Hetty would have killed me herself if I'd given up something that would have gotten other soldiers hurt. Then, fortunately, he got a call, and left abruptly, telling his men to kill us both, film it and email it to him. He's still in the wind, hadn't even been seen again by the time we left Earth."

_If we ever go back there to find him, I'll help you kill him._

"Fortunately again, his men were idiots. They left me alone when they went to get the camera, and I got free, slipped the zipties off my wrists. There was a knife on a table in there, so I picked it up and went hunting.

"There were only four of them, so it didn't take long. I found my gear and swords, stashed in the cave like fucking trophies or something. Grabbed a medpack, did what I could to stop Hetty's bleeding then my own, then carried her out of there.

"Outside the cave, I got radio contact with Kandahar. The _bastard_ who betrayed me was the on-duty officer, and he vetoed the rescue mission. A certain Major John Sheppard was flying it, in case you're interested."

"Small universe, as I've heard him say." Teyla said with a small, sad smile.

"So it is. Anyway, that _traitor _couldn't call off fire support for me, not right then anyway, without looking suspicious. Only an hour later though, an American gunship got shot down flying in to give me cover, and that gave some more senior commander enough reason to pull the gunships back too, said it was too hot. Guy was some bureaucrat REMF who had no place in the chain of command at all; he sure as hell didn't understand how much we were in the shit at that point. Sheppard's friend, a Captain Holland, was the pilot of that gunship; Sheppard disobeyed orders, flew in to get him and got shot down himself but survived.

"I made my way as quickly as I could to the crash site, made contact with Sheppard and we kept moving. The American commander still refused to extract us, and because I'd been on a mission in the American zone at the time, I didn't have radio contact with any British commanders who could help, they were all in Helmand, too far away.

"Shep and I made our way South-West all day towards the edge of the local Taliban tribes' area of influence. I gave up shouting at the American HQ down the radio, and we climbed a pretty goddam huge mountain to try to reach a British base, fighting our way through a few Taliban patrols as we went. I eventually got scratchy contact with 3 Rifles Battle-group through FOB Gibraltar, and they relayed to our Higher Command about our situation.

"British HQ in Bastion screamed for the Americans to get us out right _fucking_ now, and that jackass I mentioned earlier continued to say no. Self-centered idiot was more concerned about what his resume would look like if he lost a few expensive helicopters instead of a few soldiers, and he was senior enough to get away with it for a few more hours until the British commander, who was a higher rank than him, phoned the ISAF Command in Kabul and had him arrested and put up for court martial, which was where I found out some of this stuff. I do hope he's enjoying his prison time for dereliction of duty because he thoroughly deserved it."

_I agree. _

"We had to wait several hours for some helicopters to come get us, but eventually an RAF MERT bird got to us and picked us up. Hetty had passed out long before, but she was still alive. I was so goddam relieved we'd been rescued, I let my guard down. I thought it was done, that she'd be fine … she'd been drifting in and out all day, keeping my spirits up when she was lucid, cracking god-awful jokes."

Harry choked, head bowed, tears beginning to slide down his cheeks. Teyla had been trying to hold them in herself for a while; now she couldn't, but she stayed silent, let him finish.

"The MERT, that's a helicopter with a specialist medical team on board to treat serious casualties in flight. They're good, really good, and the hospital at Bastion's actually better than most at home. The MERT guys kept Hetty alive all the way home. As I said, I relaxed. Thought it was all over. Thought I'd saved her. I let my walls down."

He stopped again, for a long few seconds. Teyla was suddenly aware she'd put an arm around him without even noticing, holding him tight as Harry let it all out.

_As his heart breaks all over again._

"Hetty died ... between the helicopter and the operating room. She just ... slipped away. Too much bloodloss, too much trauma. She'd been severely beaten before they even threatened her in front of me ... broken bones, internal bleeding."

"And the writing?" Teyla asked softly as her Warrior, the disciplined, iron-hard soldier she was now certain she'd started to fall for, broke down in the circle of her arms. _He hasn't grieved; he doesn't know how, not for someone this close to him ... someone he truly loved. He just boxed it up and carried on with the mission, just like he always does. He didn't know how else to go on. _

_"__Memoria bene acta vita aeterna." _Harry whispered.

Teyla had a moment's difficulty with the syntax, but it was close enough.

_The memory of a well-spent life is eternal._

* * *

Sorry to disappoint some readers who wanted Hetty to come to Atlantis - no joy. She was the love of his life, so to speak - companion, confidant, best friend, lover - and Harry's still reeling from her death as it was only nine months ago, story-time-wise.

A/Ns

And in this chapter we start becoming more AU. No AI's were introduced in the show, obviously, and Tyche and her cohorts will have a significant support role to play when the Expedition finally get some ZPMs. Which might be a while, just like in the show … don't want to make it too easy, do I?

Tyche will get more development, frankly she'll hopefully end up as much a character as Major Lorne or one of the other secondaries. I'm firmly of the opinion that near-human A.I.s are almost always fantastic characters. Rommie, of Andromeda? EDI, from Mass Effect? Cortana, Halo? All awesome.

There's a reasonably subtle Mass Effect 2 shout out in the first sparring scene - meta-cookies to those who can spot it.

Just to be clear, I'm erring on the large side of the fan-estimated size of Atlantis. "Size of Manhattan" was what the writers said was their rule of thumb, and McKay says it's "Like searching every room in Manhattan," but that isn't especially helpful. I'm going with Atlantis as being a full 20km or so in diameter, which gives me room to play with the AU Ancient technology I want to bring in later. It's the Ancient equivalent of the Colossus of Rhodes or the Hanging Gardens; it's the freaking capital of the most advanced race in the known Stargate universe (pun intended), I think it's going to be a bit more than 300m across as some folks have suggested. I mean come on, that's not even the length of a decent rifle range, let alone a city.

Credit for the rote-response conversation program idea goes to John Ringo's 'Troy Rising' series of military sci-fi novels, specifically 'The Hot Gate.'

END OF LINE

Last note

I've got some other stories in the works fans of Per Ardua might be interested in. 'Khaveyrim' is a story of 'my' Flight Lieutenant Harry Potter and Officer Ziva David from NCIS'; it's basically a parallel universe story where Harry didn't go to Atlantis, doesn't know about the SG Programme (or it doesn't exist), and thus stays on Earth and is friends/comrades with Ziva. He's got the same 'backstory,' same early (pre-2004) career events.

Si Vis Pacem, Para Bellum is a slow-burning Harry Potter-Stargate SG-1 story with a HP/Sam Carter core. It's a broader-scope sort of story to Per Ardua, the whole galaxy's at stake and Harry, trained in science, strategy etc by Thor and the Asgard High Council, is handed some technology, carte blanche for independent action and tasked to get rid of the Goa'uld. Slow burning because I'm still researching everything I can get on the SG-1 Universe's bad guys, the Goa'uld, their underlings, their planets, technologies, etc to make it as detailed and as satisfying for myself and other fans as I can.

Also in the works - planned, but not yet written - are a series of one-shots that will cover Harry's career events from a first-person, present-tense viewpoint. By career events I mean things like Op Barras that was mentioned, the fictional Yemen nuclear incident that was alluded to, Hetty's death, that kind of thing.

'**CODEX'**

**FISH** and **CHIPS** are indeed the British Army's slang for urban ops, officially called **OBUA** (Operations in Built Up Areas) and **FIBUA** (Fighting in Built Up Areas); OBUA being more strategic (macro-management of the battlespace as a whole), and FIBUA being individual/squad/platoon level tactics. American terms are, respectively, **UO** (Urban Operations) and **CQB** (Close Quarter Battle); both terms are used by the British Army as well, but in different contexts.

**LIDAR** - laser radar, detecting something by bouncing laser light off it and measuring the return.

**Citywide/General AI -** **Tyche** - Pronounced Tie-ki, I believe, meaning 'Luck'. A Greek tutelary deity (like a protecting spirit or guardian angel) that governed the fortune, prosperity of a city - and its destiny. Later identified as fickle and untrustworthy, but we'll ignore that bit.

**Medical AI - Panacea** - Pan-ah-see-a. Greek goddess of Universal remedy, daughter of Asclepius the god of healing; you can probably guess which bit of ancient equipment in the city she's in control of.

_**Transliterated Arabic dictionary**_

_Pronunciation varies between national/regional dialects; capital letters for pronunciation stress/emphasis as I think it is; advice welcome._

_shokran __– Thank you (SHO-kran)  
__afwan __– You're welcome (AF-wan)  
__ma'salaama __– goodbye (mah-sal-AA-ma)  
__ela al'lekaa __– I'll see you soon (eh-la al-LEH-ka)  
__maasa el'khair __– good morning (mAA-sa el-Kair)  
__al'zeyma __– leader, (feminine) (al-ZEY-ma)  
__aasifa – __apology, (feminine) (ah-HASi-fa)  
__sadiiqi __– friend, (feminine) (sa-DEE-kee)  
__sahiibi __– friend, (masculine) (sah-HEE-bee)  
__muharib __– warrior, (masculine) (mu-HAR-ib)_


End file.
